


Fear of Abandonment

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Child Abandonment, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Deaged Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fear of Abandonment, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Men Crying, Visenna is a Shit Parent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “W-Who…” the bard’s song comes to an abrupt end, his fingers pausing awkwardly on his lute strings as his cornflower blue eyes flit about in search of the cause of the noise. “Roach? What’re you doing down here by your lonesome, darling girl? Shouldn’t you be－,”His eyes fall on Geralt. The pint-sized Witcher cannot help but swallow uncomfortably, that old childhood shyness rising up inside of him and settling awkwardly in his gut. “Um… hello.”“Hi,” Jaskier breathes… and then he actually breathes, and it’s easily the most disgusting sound Geralt has ever heard. Everything about him is wet with mucus. “Um… What exactly are you…”He trails off, and there’s so many different ways to fill in the blank there, Geralt doesn’t even know where to start. What is a tiny child doing, by his lonesome, at the foot of a mountain, with nightfall just around the corner? What is a tiny child doing with a Witcher’s armor, weapons, and horse? What is a tiny child doing, dressed so horribly for the weather? Jaskier could be trying to ask him any number of things, and to be fair, he knows the answer to absolutely none of those questions, so he sits, silently, and waits.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 164
Kudos: 884





	1. Alone

Roach whinnies faintly, nudging him toward the nearby pond with a gentle brush of her snout. Geralt stumbles forward on unsteady legs, peering down into the water’s surface to find－”Ahh, fuck.”

He didn’t want to believe it. But it’s rather difficult to deny the evidence when it’s so, well… 

He looks down into the water again, running short, stubby fingers through the mess of chocolate brown curls atop his little head. Judging by his size, he thinks that he’s about six- or seven-years-old, but it’s hard to tell, given that he doesn’t remember much about his own childhood prior to his mother abandoning him when he was eight, and his experience with other children is… also limited. 

He’s barefoot, clad only in the black cotton shirt he’d been wearing beneath his armor. Thank Melitele that  _ whatever _ had happened, happened near Roach－it had been almost comedic to watch him struggle to load the leather armor onto Roach’s saddle, seeing as it weighed nearly half as much as he did and he isn’t quite tall enough to reach her back in this state. It’s… rather chilly to be wandering about in such a state of undress, but none of his other clothes  _ fit _ him and he’s at  _ least _ half a day’s walk to the nearest town－

Ah, wait. Half a day in his  _ normal _ body. Like this, he’ll just as likely die of frostbite before he’s made it even halfway…

Roach taps him with her snout a second time, and he sighs. At least she still recognizes him, even in this state. Not that that does him much good, but… It’s a small comfort, considering everything else that’d gone to actual hell in the last several hours. Yennefer is long gone (and he has a sneaking suspicion that she is at least partially responsible for  _ all this _ ), and so is Jaskier (but that… that’s  _ his _ fault, much as it burns to admit it). He can’t remember the last time he felt so alone, so  _ defenseless _ －

_ So scared. _

Alright, that maybe a lie. His hands twitch around an imaginary pail filled to the brim with ice-cold water from the spring, his mother’s name on his lips as she disappears into the horizon. He’s rather useless in this form (the fact that his swords are still laid out on the ground beside him,  _ mocking _ him with their tremendous weight, is testament to that fact－his little stick arms would  _ snap _ the second he tried to lift the bloody things off the ground, which is as infuriating as it is embarrassing). And no-one has need of a useless Witcher.

Gods, this has to be the actual  _ worst _ way to die－

“We fight it down/And we live it down/Or we bare it bravely well…” steely blue eyes snap up at the sound of a familiar lilting voice. That’s…  _ yes _ , that’s Jaskier, coming back down the mountain! “But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell…”

“J-Jas－,” he cuts himself off, mid-exclamation, realizing that he looks absolutely nothing like himself and as such, there’s no good reason for him to know the bard’s name. Or to hope that the bard will recognize him in turn. Fuck…

“W-Who…” the bard’s song comes to an abrupt end, his fingers pausing awkwardly on his lute strings as his cornflower blue eyes flit about in search of the cause of the noise. “Roach? What’re you doing down here by your lonesome, darling girl? Shouldn’t you be－,” 

His eyes fall on Geralt. The pint-sized Witcher cannot help but swallow uncomfortably, that old childhood shyness rising up inside of him and settling awkwardly in his gut. “Um… hello.”

“Hi,” Jaskier breathes… and then he  _ actually _ breathes, and it’s easily the most disgusting sound Geralt has ever heard.  _ Everything _ about him is  _ wet _ with mucus. “Um… What exactly are you…”

He trails off, and there’s so many different ways to fill in the blank there, Geralt doesn’t even know where to start. What is a tiny child doing, by his lonesome, at the foot of a mountain, with nightfall just around the corner? What is a tiny child doing with a Witcher’s armor, weapons, and  _ horse _ ? What is a tiny child doing, dressed so horribly for the weather? Jaskier could be trying to ask him any number of things, and to be fair, he knows the answer to absolutely  _ none _ of those questions, so he sits, silently, and waits. 

“Have you seen a Witcher? About yea high, silver hair, amber eyes? Real surly fellow, and in a piss-poor mood.” Geralt purses his lips, but doesn’t answer. Roach proceeds to headbutt him in the shoulder so hard she almost knocks him over. “Whoa, girl. Be gentle. Little ones are fragile.”

Geralt’s expression morphs into a full-on pout, “‘m not  _ fragile _ .”

“Ah yes, right. I’d forgotten that children are nigh indestructible. Silly me.” Jaskier sniffles again, rubbing at his swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “I should probably wait here for my fri－,” he stops himself mid-word, shaking his head, “for the Witcher to return. To make sure no harm comes to his belongings. But you… you should head home. I’m certain there’s someone out there worried sick about you－,”

Geralt shakes his head, “...I haven’t a home to return to.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier sits down beside him, “Well, then… would you like to wait here with me awhile? Just until the Witcher returns? It’ll be safer if we stick together－strength in numbers and all that.”

“I’ll protect you!” Geralt exclaims, only for a cute little blush to stain his rounded cheeks. His voice is so damn squeaky!

“I’m sure you will.” Jaskier concedes with a bright smile. It warbles a bit at the edges, and he still looks like he’ll bust into tears at any moment, but… He seems  _ happier _ than he was before, and it makes Geralt’s chest feel warm. “Why don’t you go collect some wood, and I’ll build us a fire to keep warm in the meantime.”

Geralt nodded. He could do that－he could be useful, even in this small, inconsequential way. But… just in case… he wouldn’t wander too far off from Roach. As long as Jaskier remains in his line of sight, he can’t run away like… like Visenna. He can’t leave him stranded in this weak, useless body on the side of a mountain, even if he well and truly deserved it after everything that he’d said and done just a short while before. Geralt bites his lip and begins stuffing his arms with as many pieces of wood he can carry. 

If he can impress the bard, even in something as mundane in gathering firewood, then maybe… just maybe… he can convince him to allow him to tag along on his travels once he realizes ‘Geralt’ won’t be returning for his belongings. 

It won’t get him any closer to reversing whatever had caused…  _ this _ , but… at least he won’t be alone anymore. 


	2. Hi, My Name is Ger--Gerard

It takes him several trips, but he’s able to gather up enough wood for Jaskier to make a halfway decent fire. Jaskier’s skill with the flint stone is as abysmal as ever, but soon enough, he’s able to create a spark. The wood catches fire with a terrific  _ whoosh _ , and Geralt’s steely blue eyes widen as it builds from a tiny, crackling ember to a full-on flame. It’s irritating, how he is so easily amused by something as simple as fire, but in this form, everything seems  _ new _ and  _ exciting _ . 

He takes a seat by the fire, wiggling his bare toes by the flames. “Oh, where are my manners? It occurs to me that you don’t even know my name.” Jaskier huffs a laugh, “I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove… but you can call me Jaskier.” 

“Jas...kier.” Jaskier’s name sounds…  _ odd _ in his new, high-pitched voice. He’s so used to growling and yelling it that… oh. He deflates a little bit, focusing his attention on the shadows dancing across his feet. 

“You don’t have to tell me yours, if you don’t want to.” The bard continues, his tone light. Geralt knows that, if he chose to hold his tongue, Jaskier would honor his word and not push the matter further. And yet…

“I… My name is…” tiny fingers pick at the fraying hem of his t-shirt, “I am Ger－Gerard. My name is Gerard.”

Jaskier nods, “Well, it is very nice to meet you, Gerard.” Then, “Are you hungry? I’ll admit that my skills as a hunter are somewhat lacking, but I’m sure we could find some berries to snack on while we wait for… for Geralt.” He says.

Geralt is about to protest that he’s not hungry, when his rebellious stomach begins to rumble. Loudly. He blushes, keeping his eyes down, “Y-Yeah. Okay.”

Jaskier gives an honest laugh this time, “Would it be alright if I carried you? This rocky mountain terrain can’t be comfortable on your bare feet, and I would hate for you to get hurt－,”

“O-Okay.” Geralt’s arms seem to move upward on their own accord, making it easy for Jaskier to scoop him up.

“Hmm… you seem a little warm. I hope you’re not developing a fever, running around the mountain like this.” 

Geralt rests his little head on Jaskier’s shoulder, “I’m always warm.”

They don’t wander far from their little camp. It’s sweet that, even after everything that happened, Jaskier is still so protective of Roach and Geralt’s belongings. His grasp of emotions is definitely still somewhat…  _ lacking _ , and in his current state the only thing he can smell is the overwhelming scent of bergamot orange and hibiscus radiating off of the bard, so it’s difficult for him to ascertain whether Jaskier is hurt, or angry, or both. But he’d put coin on both. But the bard’s heart is tremendous, and it bleeds for those in need－even those that had hurt him horribly. Geralt swallows hard.

By the time they’re able to locate a berry bush, Geralt’s decided that he doesn’t quite mind being carried. The bard’s arms are strong, surprisingly so for a man who carries little more than a lute with him across the Continent, and yet… there’s a certain  _ softness _ to them. Geralt shifts a little, clutching at the soft, silken material of the bard’s doublet, lavishing in the feel of the expensive material as it wades through his fingers. Is this… Is this what hugging the bard would be like? Soft and warm and… safe? Is that the word that he’s looking for? How… odd. 

Maybe... Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, having the bard touch him like this more often. He isn't under any misconceptions that Jaskier could actually carry him, were he in his correct body, but... a hug every once in a blue moon might actually be  _ nice _ .

Not that there's any way he can just... come out and ask Jaskier for a hug. That would be weird, right? Especially after everything he'd said on the mountain...

Jaskier plucks a small handful of berries for them to share. They're a bit sour, likely just this side of ripe, but they're not poisonous－so Jaskier had been listening when Geralt had tried his hand at teaching him to forrage after all. Geralt eats quite a few, surprised that, while the taste of the berries was  _ powerful _ , it was not overwhelming to his hyper-sensitive palate. Interesting.

Jaskier hums softly, underneath his breath as they wander along. The tune is unfamiliar, but this is not particularly surprising. Jaskier writes  _ a lot _ . Even if he actively tried to remember the names and tunes to everything Jaskier had ever written－which he didn't (fuck, could you really blame him? He'd been in so many taverns with drunken patrons calling for  _ Toss a Coin _ that he was amazed Jaskier knew anything  _ but _ )－he's bound to forget  _ something _ . Especially something so  _ maudlin. _

Honestly, songs of heartbreak and loss don't suit the bard at all. He says as much... in a remarkably less-than-couth manner. "Don't you know any happy songs?"

Jaskier snorts, "Yes, of course I do. I just... I suppose that I'm not really in the mood to sing about anything happy." He gives Geralt a wet, warbling smile, continuing, "You see... I suppose you could say that I'm not looking forward to the Witcher's inevitable return."

Something tightens in Geralt's chest. He stuffs the feeling down, swallowing a too-large mouthful of berries. "...Oh."

"We, ah... We'd traveled together for a very long time. Over twenty years. I know it's hard to believe, seeing as I don't look a day over thirty, but..." he sighs, deflating a bit, "I would've thought, after all that time, that we... We were  _ friends _ , at the very least. But no. Instead, he... he..." he swipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Sorry, you probably don't care about any of this, do you? All you wanted was to hear a happy song, poor dear."

"He's an ass." Geralt decides after a moment of tense, uncomfortable silence. "The Witcher."

_ That _ actually earns a laugh from Jaskier, "True as that may be, that's certainly no language for little boys to be using."

"Hmph. 'm not little." Geralt huffs, before twisting himself around to grab the half-full water skin from Jaskier's belt. He  _ pops _ the cork and drinks messily, thoroughly dousing Jaskier's sleeve in the process.

"Messy little thing, aren't you?" The bard remarks fondly. Geralt huffs and hides his face in the bard's neck.

Despite his reluctance to see the Witcher, Geralt can see that he is disappointed when they return to camp a short while later－with fresh water and semi-full bellies－to find that he's still not returned. Or... perhaps  _ disappointed _ isn't the correct word. He plops Geralt back down by the fire, paces back and forth for a short while, and then begins to rearrange all of Geralt's belongings to better fit inside of Roach's various saddlebags. Which is nice, considering he'd been able to do little more than throw those few things he'd been able to reach into the lowest hanging receptacle. But still...

Maybe he's worried. Surely, the fact that the Witcher is without his armor, weapons, potions, and horse cannot mean anything good. And they'd already had one near-death experience on this utterly disastrous contract. But without the Witcher's tracking abilities, he'd never be able to find him in time if－And what would he even do, if he magically were to stumble across a seriously wounded Witcher, stranded on the side of a mountain? He's not actually stranded, or dying, or anything of the sort, but  _ Jaskier doesn't know that _ . And he should probably  _ tell _ him that, before he gets it in his head that something horrible happened and－

And what? Finds a way to hate Geralt even more than he already does? He's not certain that that's actually possible, and if it  _ is _ , well... Isn't that all the more reason for him to keep his lips sealed?

Roach headbutts Jaskier's chest, gently nudging him in Geralt's direction. The little boy gives her a knowing side-glance. He knows what it is that she's trying to do, and it's not going to work.

He's already in this deep. There's no turning back now.

Jaskier looks to the sky, which is beginning to grow dark. "Well... I suppose there's no point in continuing to wait here, unless we want to spend the night on the mountain." He gives Geralt a small, worried smile, "If we make for town, we should be able to arrive before nightfall. There should be an inn－,"

"What about the horse?" Because, fuck all if he's just going to  _ leave _ Roach at the base of a mountain. That's... just no.

Jaskier runs a soothing hand over Roach's snout, "We'll bring her along. I'm sure that there's a stable where she can rest, and if nothing else, Ger－the Witcher－will return for his horse."

Jaskier lets him sit for a short while longer, before hefting him up onto Roach's back (gods above, he can't even straddle the godsdamned saddle, his legs are so  _ tiny _ －he has to sit side-saddle, and even then, he's terrified he'll go  _ flying _ ). The bard seems to have some reservations about climbing up into the saddle behind him, and the traitorous little voice in the back of his head reminds him that the hesitation is perfectly justified. When they'd first met (fuck, had that really been  _ two decades _ ago, already?), he'd spoken to Jaskier as infrequently as possible. And yet, he distinctly remembers－

_ Don't touch Roach. _ Gods, he really  _ is _ an ass.

He purses his lips and thinks about asking Jaskier to join him to ensure that he doesn't fall and break something important. But it would seem that asking for help has  _ never _ been Geralt's forte, because the words get tangled up in his throat as a vicious blush rises along his ivory pale neck to settle in his chubby little cheeks. Alright then. Actions speak louder than words and all that. He loosens his grip on Roach's reigns ever so slightly and－

"Sorry, sorry." Jaskier is adjusting him in the saddle before he can even tumble off of the horse, "I forgot that you're a little－," Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier laughs, "That you might have need of my help."

Jaskier slides into the saddle behind him, causing Roach to grunt from the added weight. Geralt strokes the back of her neck idly, feeling a bit braver now that the immediate threat has vanished. "I just... don't want to break my leg, that's all."

"Of course. I would feel absolutely awful if you were to break a leg, so let's do our best to keep that from happening, yes?" He watches Geralt pet Roach's neck for a moment, before murmuring, "...She's a good horse, isn't she?"

"Hmm." Geralt doesn't have time to formulate a more complex answer, as they suddenly start moving. He lets out a soft little yip, grabbing the reigns so hard his knuckles turn white when he starts slipping again.

Gods, this form is going to get  _ very _ old,  _ very _ fast if he can't even ride Roach without risking his untimely demise. If Vesemir could see him know, the old Witcher would have a coronary.

He can only hope they make it to the town quickly, before he actually  _ does _ fall. Even if he somehow escapes unscathed, he doesn't think he'll survive the resulting mortification.


	3. Does He Love Me?

He hadn’t realized that he was tired. Not until he blinks open his swollen blue eyes to find himself tucked safely into the warmth of Jaskier’s shoulder, while Jaskier worked out the specifics of their lodging with the innkeeper. 

The woman is plump, and quite a few inches shorter than his bard, but she looks on the two of them with a kindness in her eyes that does funny things to Geralt’s chest. She tells Jaskier that his little boy is quite handsome, and Jaskier doesn’t bother to correct her. Geralt supposes that it’s a logical assumption. In this form, he does look quite a bit like the bard－although his hair is curly, and a few shades darker than Jaskier, their features are rather similar. It’s… kind of nice. He’d never known his father, but he always assumed that he took after him in appearance, considering that he and Visenna were about as different as night and day. 

Jaskier arranges hot water for a bath, as well as two bowls of whatever they’d served for dinner. The innkeeper charges him a  _ pittance _ , and just this once, despite the bard’s unending charm, Geralt realizes that the discount was because of  _ him _ . Which is odd. And fills him with all sorts of weird, mixed-up emotions that his tired, frazzled brain doesn’t have the energy to attempt to process. It’s just a given that Witchers can be expected to pay two- to three-times the average going rate for anything from whores to a room in the local inn. Even after they’d fulfilled a major contract, there were times where the best they could hope for was to simply not be run out of town.

He clutches Jaskier’s silken doublet in his little hand, reminding himself, yet again, that he does not  _ look _ like a Witcher. Not anymore. He’s a near century-old mutant, stuffed into the ill-fitting body of a cute and cuddly six-year-old boy. And that means people are going to start looking at, and treating him, differently.

Whether he likes it or not. 

“She thought that I was your son.” Geralt mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm as Jaskier gently sets him down on the foot of the bed. Much to his horror, his feet didn’t even touch the floor.

Jaskier hums absently, “Yes, I suppose that she did.” He starts rifling through his bags, trying to find something for the child to wear. It didn’t take long for him to realize that every last one of his shirts would fit him like a dress. “Did that… upset you?” He ventures carefully.

Geralt kicks his feet back and forth, “N-No, I－Not really, no.” He looks around the room, thinking quietly to himself. “I never met my dad, and my mommy－,” he cringes－ _ Mommy? Really? _ －before continuing, “she, uh… she went away.” His blue eyes skirt down, focusing on the soft fur laid out underneath him.

Jaskier’s entire face seems to crumble, “Oh, you poor thing－,” and Geralt remembers, belatedly, that ‘gone’ is a child-friendly euphemism for  _ dead _ . Whoops. 

“She’s not,” he shifts a little, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He doesn’t like talking about Visenna, in part because he never seems to have the words to explain just how royally she fucked him up inside. “She’s alive. At least, as far as I know. I just… I don’t think she wanted me very much, is all.”

All of a sudden, his vision is obscured by a field of burgundy. Jaskier is squatting down in front of him, rubbing lute-calloused thumbs over his little cheeks and－when had he started crying? That’s weird… “Well, that’s her loss, then. Because I’ve only known you for a few hours, and I happen to think that you’re pretty fantastic.”

_ You wouldn’t,  _ he thinks.  _ If you knew the whole truth, you would’ve left me on the side of that mountain to rot _ . Instead, he asks, “Are you afraid of spiders?”

Jaskier’s face scrunches up in confusion, “Um… not particularly, no. What brought this on?”

“I mean, I know I vowed to protect you and all, but if we’re gonna pretend to be father and son, you hafta pull your weight somewhere.” Geralt huffs, “And spiders are nasty. So you protect me from the spiders, and I’ll protect you from everything else.”

_ That _ earns an honest laugh out of the bard, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Gerard.”

A maid comes in to prepare the bath for Geralt. The water is tepid, at best－significantly cooler than he would’ve liked, had he been grown and able to cast Igni. But then, he had a feeling that soaking in water that hot would probably be hell on his delicate baby skin. Jaskier mixed a number of sweetly scented oils into the water; he must’ve gotten used to preparing baths for Geralt over the years, because the scent is… soft, pleasant and soothing, not unlike what he would’ve prepared for the Witcher had he been in his proper form. And it’s…  _ nice _ . Especially when the bard kneels alongside and starts to wash his hair.

“Jaskier?” The bard’s name still sounds so odd in his squeaky little voice. He hums to show that he’s listening, as he works a sweet, lavender and honeysuckle scented shampoo into Geralt’s dark curls. “If the Witcher was really, really sorry… do you think you could forgive him?”

Jaskier pauses, just for a moment, before confessing, “...I don’t know.”

Geralt frowns, “...You don’t know?”

“The Witcher…” Jaskier purses his lips, his brow furrowing as he descends into deep thought. “I love him.” He whispers, finally. “I love him, and I never told him, and I’m beginning to suspect that that’s the only wise decision I’ve made in the last twenty years.” 

Geralt blinks, “You… love him?”

“Yes.” He says this with such venom that it’s hard to believe that they’re talking of love at all. “I’ve loved the dumbass for more than half my life now, and where did it get me? Cast away like yesterday’s garbage, in favor of a crazed witch who only cares for him because a bloody  _ djinn _ made it so.”

But Geralt was still struggling to comprehend the fact that Jaskier had just come out and admitted that he  _ loved _ him. Even if he didn’t actually realize who it was that he was confessing to. “You love him… like a friend?”

Jaskier hums, “Well, I do suppose that that is technically true. He is－was－my very best friend, up until recently.” He rinses out Geralt’s hair, careful to keep the sudsy water out of his eyes. “But I’m thinking of something more.”

Something tight clenches in Geralt’s chest. “He’s an ass.” He says it again, because he doesn’t know what else he could possibly say to fill the massive void his words had left in Jaskier’s heart. 

“Yeah,” the bard sniffs. “He is.” 

Once he’s clean, Jaskier pulls him up and out of the water, pats him dry with a fluffy white towel, and dresses him in one of his soft, well-worn undershirts. It still fits him like a godsdamned dress, but at least it’s clean… and it smells like Jaskier, which is oddly comforting. Their room has two beds, which is a luxury that they often cannot afford, and his new, miniscule frame makes it feel like he’s  _ swimming _ in the middle of the overstuffed mattress. Jaskier tucks him in and tells him a story about beautiful princesses, valiant knights, and fire-breathing dragons to whisk him off to his dreamland. A dreamland that is, for once, pleasantly devoid of monsters.

Well, monsters of the  _ usual _ sort, at least. 

He wakes less than an hour later, tears clinging to his ebony lashes as the image of his mother rapidly steering the wagon away from him seers itself onto his brain. He turns to Jaskier, just barely able to make out his form, huddled up in the opposite bed. He didn’t think he’d ever miss his enhanced eyesight, knowing the horrors that he’d endured in order for his eyes to be transformed in such a manner, but… it was also weird, not being able to see Jaskier when he is clearly  _ so closeby _ . Before he can second-guess himself, he tumbles out of bed and rushes over to Jaskier, taking hold of the blankets and tugging lightly.

Jaskier’s eyes pop open like he’s expecting to be ambushed. His expression softens, just a bit, when he sees that it’s only Geralt. “What’s the matter, little guy? Did you have a bad dream?”

Geralt pouts, ignoring the tears streaming down his cheeks. “N-No, I… I just thought you might be lonely, over here by yourself. That’s all. But seeing as you’re fine, I’ll just－,”

The bard rolls his eyes, turning down the corner of the blanket in invitation. “You’re talking yourself in circles.” The corner of his lip quirks up into a would-be grin, “That’s my job. Now come here and try to get some rest, alright? We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Geralt struggles up onto the bed, his little brow furrowed in confusion. “...a big day?”

“Of course.” Jaskier says, brushing damp curls up and away from Geralt’s face. “We’re going clothes shopping.”

* * *

“You’re spoiling me.” Geralt huffs, his frown deepening as the tailor takes hold of his shoulder and twists him round and round, contorting him into all sorts of different positions to get the necessary measurements. 

“Nonsense!” Jaskier’s laughter is absolutely musical as he talks to one of the assistants about the best fabric to order for children’s clothes. From the sounds of it, he should just be thankful that the bard isn’t dressing him from head to toe in expensive silks. 

He’s beginning to think that Jaskier legitimately enjoys having someone to dote upon and care for. Or, perhaps even more than that, Jaskier enjoys knowing that somebody  _ needs _ him. Interestingly enough, aside from the melancholic piece he sang on the mountain… Jaskier hasn’t made to play his lute, or sung to himself, or  _ anything _ . Instead, he’s devoted one-hundred and ten percent of his energy to entertaining Geralt－Geralt, who has tried his damndest to not be the typical, bothersome child with too many questions in his head and boundless reserves of energy in his little body. 

Hells, Geralt  _ likes _ kids, and even  _ he _ knows that they can be a bit…  _ much _ . But Jaskier just takes it all in stride, handling every last question with a level of patience that Geralt honestly hadn’t known that the bard possessed. By the time that they’d arrived at the tailor, he knew the story behind each of the glittering silver rings on Jaskier’s fingers, along with the locket that he’d received from his late mother. He knew why Jaskier went by ‘Jaskier’, and knew that he’d been shirking his duties as Viscount for nigh on five years now. He knew how to make a flower crown－though the one Jaskier made for him was infinitely better.

And he knew that Jaskier was completely, irrevocably in love with Geralt of Rivia. 

“So you don’t like the witch?” He’d learned, very quickly, that his six-year-old brain just couldn’t seem to handle Yennefer’s name. That, and… her name made Jaskier sad, and he genuinely didn’t want to see the bard sad.

Jaskier has just finished arranging for the clothes to be made. “It’s not that I don’t like her.” He hands over a purse of glittering gold coins－much more than Geralt had made on a contract in  _ quite _ some time. “But I… You see, there was this djinn and…  _ Ugh _ .” 

Geralt pales a bit, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to－,”

Jaskier shakes his head, “Don’t be.” Once the transaction is finished, he takes Geralt’s hand, “It’s just that… ours is a very complicated story, with quite a few moving pieces. Geralt would’ve never met Yennefer if I hadn’t annoyed him so horribly, after all.”

There is a  _ long _ pause as Geralt attempts to comprehend what the bard has just said, “Um…  _ what _ ?”

“We had a bit of a  _ childish _ spat over a djinn bottle.” He sighs, “Geralt wished for some peace and quiet, and my throat swelled up like a balloon. I almost died－,”

“He didn’t want you to die!” He says, a little too loud. A little too forceful.

Jaskier frowns a bit, “I didn’t think that he did. But the fact remains that if I hadn’t desired his attention so  _ strongly _ … if I could’ve just let the matter go… maybe I wouldn’t have gotten sick. And then he never would’ve met Yennefer.”

“Jaskier…”

“So I like Yennefer just fine, I suppose. It’s not her fault that Geralt liked her better.” Jaskier swings their intertwined hands a bit. “I used to wonder what it would be like, if things were different. But now I know that that will never be. And it hurts, yes, but… Maybe this is the sign that it’s finally time to move on.”


	4. Cry Me A River

He has to tell himself not to panic. His blood feels like chunks of ice inside of his veins, tearing him open from the inside out, his breath coming hard and fast as Jaskier’s words reverberate inside his head over… and  _ over _ … and  _ over. _

_ Maybe this is a sign that it’s finally time to move on. _

He has to tell himself not to panic because he  _ isn’t _ Geralt right now (but he  _ is _ ) and Jaskier isn’t leaving him (but he  _ IS _ ). Jaskier has no reason to suspect that the little boy in his care and the Witcher who apparently broke his heart are actually one and the same－there is absolutely  _ no way _ that he would be divulging so much information so  _ freely _ if he suspected, for even a moment, that something even remotely out-of-the-ordinary had occurred. 

Mothers abandoned their young children all the time. It was an unfortunate fact of life on the Continent. The vast majority of the populace was  _ exceedingly _ poor, and there would come a time when the stress of feeding multiple mouths would just be too much for a family to handle. The bard would not think twice about finding a child at the foot of a mountain all by his lonesome, and of course, with his big, bleeding heart, would be obliged to take the child in. He probably thought that Geralt had gravitated to Roach because he suspected that the horse’s owner would come around soon enough, and might offer food or water, or, if he was particularly lucky, temporary shelter. 

There was no reason for him to suspect that Geralt had been cursed. Why would he? The bard’s experience with magic likely began with some pleasant fumblings with love spells, and ended with the unpleasantness with the djinn that he tried not to think of. Or speak of. Why would he think that a Witcher, who dealt with hostile mages and mythical creatures of all kinds, had fallen victim to a deaging curse? Or, better yet, that he hadn’t the slightest idea as to who had cursed him, or how to even begin going about reversing the damage that had been done? He can practically  _ feel _ Vesemir’s disappointment from clear across the Continent. Gods…

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that, to Jaskier, he’s just a random kid that the bard picked up at the base of a mountain and that it would be  _ weird _ for him to start panicking at the thought of the bard leaving someone who is  _ definitely not  _ him. 

He squeezes Jaskier’s hand so hard that, were he in his proper form, he would’ve crushed every last bone in his hand. And he absolutely  _ does not panic _ .

Except, in his absolute state of not-panic, his body goes ramrod straight and his knees lock-up and he just kind of…  _ stops _ walking. And Jaskier keeps moving, because he’s  _ always _ moving, and though their hands are connected he doesn’t realize that Geralt stopped until it’s too late. He steps forward, the momentum causing him to tug on Geralt’s little arm just so, and the baby Witcher stumbles forward and face-plants on the ground. 

Geralt shifts so that he’s sitting on his butt, trying to decide whether the embarrassment of falling in the middle of town or the pain in his face where he’d scraped his chin on a rock is more upsetting. Jaskier is apologizing profusely, so many words tumbling out of his mouth at once that Geralt has a hard time deciphering what it is that he’s actually trying to say, as he takes his water skin and uses it to wet the corner of his handkerchief and－the next few seconds are a blur, but he thinks that he may have just  _ scratched _ Jaskier for trying to clean the wound on his face and there comes the panic again…

He’s supposed to be the one  _ protecting _ the bard. But even in this tiny, harmless body, it seems all he is capable of doing is  _ hurting _ him. 

“It’s okay.” Jaskier tells him, even managing to muster a little smile. “Here, let me have your hand for a second.” Jaskier brings his chubby little fingers up to his face, to trace over the slightly raised skin where he’d scratched the bard. “It’s not even bleeding.” 

“I still－,” Jaskier presses a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. 

“You didn’t hurt me. This? I’ve had cat scratches that were worse.” He says, “I should’ve been more careful when I touched your chin. Actually, come to think of it…”

He reaches into his satchel, digging through various vials of oil until he finds one that looks vaguely familiar. It’s the vial of chamomile oil. Distantly, he remembers Jaskier telling him that chamomile is a powerful, natural numbing agent. As he places a few drops onto the handkerchief, Geralt takes a moment to peer into the bag. He recognizes a number of the oils from watching the bard prepare his perfumes, but a number of them are unfamiliar. And, upon closer inspection, a number of them aren’t oils at all. There’s a bottle of something called aloe, a couple of odd-looking white flowers called feverfew, and… what the fuck is  _ fenugreek _ ?

Jaskier laughs, “I suppose that I’m a bit of a walking apothecary nowadays. Geralt was always really good at finding new ways to injure himself.” When he presses the kerchief to his chin again, it still stings, but the pain isn’t nearly as bad. “Most days he wouldn’t let me help him, but sometimes－,”

“...Jaskier?” Geralt blinks steely blue eyes up at the bard, ignoring the fat tears that cascade off of his lashes.

“Yeah?”

“...Can you… tell me what love is?” He’s not entirely sure where the question came from, but… first the bad tells him－well, Gerard, technically－that he is－was?－in love with the Witcher, and now he discovers he’s been toting around an actual apothecary on the off-chance that he let him treat his wounds? He feels like shit, to be honest. 

“Love is… well, I suppose that it’s something different for everyone. I… When I saw this tall, dark, and broody man tucked away in the corner of a tavern, I wanted to know more about him.” He says, “I’ll admit that my intentions were… less than honorable, at the start. I desperately needed coin, and for that, I needed a muse.”

“And he could provide you with both.” Geralt supplies, not quite sure how to feel about this revelation. He supposes that he always knew that Jaskier was using him, at least at the outset of their relationship－perhaps that was why the bard annoyed him so much. 

_ Respect doesn’t make history _ .

Jaskier nods, “But then… when we were kidnapped by the elves… something changed. I don’t really know how to describe it, but… I was half annoyed that this self-sacrificing idiot was so ready to die, and one-hundred percent certain that I’d gut the first fucker to try and kill him－,”

“But you’re  _ just _ a bard－,” and okay, he  _ knows _ that that sounded shitty, you don’t need to rub it in. But Jaskier laughs as if he’d just told the world’s greatest joke and now he’s  _ really _ fucking confused. 

“Mmm… yes, well, I’m not as defenseless as Geralt would like me to believe. It made Geralt feel better, knowing that he had something to protect, so I might’ve… played up the damsel in distress act. Just a little bit.” 

Once Geralt’s wounds were tended to, he tucks his medical supplies away, before looking around to make sure that the coast is clear. Geralt furrows his brow in confusion, only to promptly proceed to choke on the air when Jaskier pulls a fucking  _ poisoned dagger _ out of his left boot. And apparently, the weapons don’t stop there. The bard’s entire body is  _ covered _ in weapons in various shapes and sizes－hell, there’s even a blade tucked away inside of his lute! (he’s still trying to figure out how the hell Jaskier managed to stow  _ anything _ away inside of there). Has he actually been  _ that _ blind this whole time? That’s… both impressive and horrifying. 

“It’s standard practice for the sons of nobles to receive some sort of military training. I was never strong enough to send out to the front line, but I was  _ fast _ and  _ stealthy _ , and fairly handy with a blade, so my father decided I would be plenty useful for  _ other _ types of missions.” Jaskier says, as calm as if he were talking about the weather.

“You’re an assassin.” Geralt mumbles, a little awe-struck and a little terrified. How in the hell had he not noticed that his happy-go-lucky bard was a fucking  _ trained killer _ ?

_ “Was.” _ Jaskier emphasizes, “I quickly discovered that I didn’t have much of a stomach for bloodshed. I’d much prefer to  _ sing _ about it than experience it myself.” He continues, “But I could get the job done, if need be.”

“But… you’re a  _ bard _ .”

“You’ve never heard about the bards in noble courts?” Jaskier rises, stretching until his joints  _ popped _ . “Oh, the stories that I could tell you, my dear boy. But come now, we must hurry. We have an appointment with the town cobbler to get you into a new pair of shoes－,”

“ _ More _ clothes?” Geralt pouts, his cheeks puffing out cutely. Jaskier used to obsess about his clothing when he was in his proper form, too. But it was easier to ignore his wiles when he was a grown man, and not a six-year-old child that needed to rely on the bard for  _ everything _ .

“Oh, you’ll look so  _ adorable _ in a pair of little leather riding boots!” The bard takes his hand again, and they’re off.

But not before Geralt gets in one last huffy, “‘m not adorable.”

* * *

“So… where are we headed, exactly?” Geralt is well-accustomed to a life of constant travel, but that’s hardly ideal for a six-year-old. He’s certain that Jaskier must’ve thought of this already.

“To Lettenhove.” Jaskier says, after a pause. “We’ll stay in town for a week, just long enough for the tailor to finish making your clothes. That will give Geralt plenty of time to track down his horse and the remainder of his belongings and to continue on his way, and then－,”

Geralt frowns, “So you’re going to assume your duties as viscount?” His cheeks flush a violent red at the way he pronounces ‘viscount’, but Jaskier seems to think it’s the most adorable thing in the world. 

Geralt shoves a too-large piece of bread into his mouth－though he’s gotten much smaller, it seems as though his appetite has not been affected by his transformation at all; he’s hungry all the damn time, his stomach like a freaking bottomless pit. Jaskier mentioned something about growing boys needing to eat, and had graciously ordered him plate after plate of food (despite Geralt being ninety-nine percent sure that it was definitely not normal for six-year-old boys to be able to put away so much food in one sitting). Geralt cannot help but wonder where he’s getting the coin to  _ pay _ for all of this－

He and Jaskier have  _ always _ been broke. That’s just the way of things. He could occasionally be convinced to dish out a little bit of extra coin to pay for a room for the night, or hot food in their bellies that Jaskier didn’t have to watch him kill and skin, but… There have also been an increasing number of nights recently where Jaskier had been paying for those rooms, and those meals, out of his own pocket. But he didn’t think that the bard had been performing more－at least, not that he’d noticed (but, as this whole exercise had shown him, he was beginning to realize that there was quite a bit about Jaskier that he didn’t know)－so how..?

“Personally, I think it’s a perfect idea. I don’t think Geralt was listening when I told him that I was heir to the Viscountship, so… provided no werewolves have taken over my family’s lands, I am confident he will not find me－us－there, if he attempts to search at all.” 

“He would search for you.” Because he  _ would _ . Geralt may not be the best when it comes to navigating complex emotions and understanding relationships, but… once he’d wrapped his head around what happened on the mountain, he would’ve tracked him down. Absolutely.

Because Jaskier was there first. He was there before Yennefer, before the mess with the Child of Surprise, before…

_ Maybe this is a sign that it’s finally time to move on _ .

Was this Jaskier’s idea of moving on? Of running home, assuming his title as viscount, and praying that his lands never had reason to call in a Witcher? It hurt to think that Jaskier was purposefully attempting to hide from him, even if he understood that he deserved it. Of course he deserved it. Because everyone that he’d ever lo－grown  _ attached _ to had left him, and since it just kept happening  _ over _ and  _ over _ and  _ over _ again… there had to be something wrong with him, right? Jaskier is still talking, he can see that his mouth is moving and hear some garbled sounds, like he’s stranded underwater, but－

“Gerard? Gerard, baby, what’s the matter? Why’re you crying?”


	5. Little Miss Why So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Jaskier sings is called Little Miss Why So by the Amazing Devil.

“‘m n-not crying.” Geralt fusses, even as Jaskier rises out of his chair to come squat down beside him. He is definitely crying, but he’d sooner deny than acknowledge the tears that’re flowing freely down his chubby little cheeks. Grown men don’t cry. Witchers don’t cry.

Jaskier wraps him up tight in his arms, tucking his snotty little face away into the crook of his neck as he rocks them back and forth. He’s whispering…  _ something _ into Geralt’s soft black curls, but he can’t make out the words over the volume of his own sobs. He hates that he’s crying. He hates that he cannot seem to force himself to  _ stop _ crying. But most of all, he hates that Jaskier is taking the time to soothe him, to  _ comfort _ him in his distress, when he so clearly doesn’t deserve it.

If－If Jaskier doesn’t want him around, then that’s  _ fine _ . If he were a braver soul, he’d leave now. If not  _ now _ , then when Jaskier was fast asleep and would least expect his found child to run. If he wasn’t at the mercy of every little thing that went bump in the night in this form, he would give Jaskier what he wanted right now, and leave him in peace. But he’s scared. Rather, he’s terrified. He’d thought that he’d long since made his peace with death, but there was something about meeting his end as an unintended consequence of a curse he didn’t even understand that made his blood run cold. He didn’t want to die, not like this. Not while he didn’t even stand a chance of defending himself.

But still… if he left, he could try to find Yennefer. She’d told him about her dreams of motherhood on the mountain. Ignoring the fact that she was likely to recognize him on the spot－and was just as likely to leave him to fend for himself in this ill-fitting body, or, worse yet, to transform him back just to try her hand at sticking him with something  _ worse _ , as she was to take him in－she might be able to provide food and shelter and relative safety, at least for a little while. Of course, he’d never actually tried to track down the amethyst-eyed witch before. She had been the one to initiate, and terminate, all of their encounters. And now that she was purposefully attempting to hide from him, the odds of him successfully tracking her down were slim to none.

Not to mention the fact that, surprisingly enough, he really didn’t  _ want _ to try and find Yennefer. 

Jaskier has been so forthcoming since Geralt’s transformation… and he knows that, while the chances are slim that the bard will ever forgive him for lying to him about the curse (made even slimmer by damage the incident on the mountain caused their relationship), if he leaves him for Yennefer now, that’ll be it. No matter the reason. No matter the intent. No matter the result. To know everything that he did, and to choose to leave him anyway, would be the ultimate rejection. Their friendship would never come back from that. 

“Is there somewhere else that you’d like to go?” Jaskier asks, quite clearly still at a loss. “If the idea of traveling to Lettenhove is so upsetting, we can go somewhere else. Of course we can. I’m not beholden to my family’s land－,”

And that… that’s absolutely  _ not _ why he’s upset, but it’s a convenient cover. “No, I－I mean…” he sniffles, pinching the delicate silk handkerchief that Jaskier offers him between two fingers. “Could we－Rivia, maybe?”

Jaskier blinks, clearly surprised by the request. “Rivia? I’m afraid that there’s not much to see in Rivia, besides a horde of drunkards and thieves.” Geralt is well aware of this. But he  _ also _ knows that if he can convince the bard to travel to Rivia, even as a detour to their ultimate destination of Lettenhove… it means Jaskier isn’t hiding from him.

At least－not yet. It’s rather difficult to hide from the Witcher in the Witcher’s hometown, after all. Even if he hasn’t been in decades.

“Well…” Jaskier bites his bottom lip, his blue eyes focused on something in the distance. “I can’t say that I’m thrilled by the idea. But－,” he squeezes Geralt gently, “there must be a reason you asked. And if it’ll make you smile, I cannot claim to be wholeheartedly opposed.” Oh, thank the gods. “ _ However _ －,”

Geralt has started to scrub at his face with the hanky, “However?” 

“You have to promise that you’ll stay near me at all times. No wandering off to explore the great unknown.” Jaskier says firmly. “And we leave at the  _ first _ sign of danger, do you understand?” A nod. “Nope, for this I’m gonna need verbal confirmation. Do you understand my terms: yes or no?”

Geralt nods again, letting out a slightly breathy, “Yessir.” If nothing else, he knows how to take orders, how to follow directions. He’s confident that this is something that he can do right.

“Good.” The bard smiles, then, “Do you feel better now? You gave me quite the scare there. I wasn’t anticipating you’d get that upset over a little trip to Lettenhove.” He ruffles Geralt’s hair, “I promise my family land isn’t  _ that _ scary.”

After a moment of consideration, Geralt supplies, “You seemed… sad.”

“Sad?” Jaskier repeats, brows furrowed.

Geralt nods, “You’ve been sad, ever since you started telling me about the Witcher. You don’t have any happy songs to sing, and you keep staring over to the left, and－,” Geralt fidgets, a bright blush rising up the long column of his neck. “You’re too pretty to be sad, Jaskier.”

Jaskier  _ squeals _ like he’s being chased through the forest by a werewolf, before scooping Geralt into a bone-crushingly tight hug. He says something that sounds vaguely like  _ flatterer _ , but he’s squeezing Geralt so tight he’s having trouble getting enough air, so he thinks that he said the right thing. It can be difficult to tell sometimes, especially with Jaskier. If he said the wrong thing to Yennefer－like up on the mountain, when he’d accidentally outed his Child of Surprise－he knew his mistake immediately, as the consequences were almost always… unpleasant. But with Jaskier…

He’s beginning to think that Jaskier uses his sarcasm as a defense mechanism. That there have been a number of times that he’s  _ hurt _ the bard－besides those which he had readily spoken of－where he’d deflected cruel comments and actions, acting like they’d rolled off of his back when  _ really _ , they’d been chipping away at itty bitty pieces of something inside him. 

He’s beginning to realize that being broken isn’t an adequate excuse to break others. 

Jaskier is the first to break the hug, but if Geralt hangs on for just a little while longer, he kindly doesn’t mention it. “Um… Jaskier?” He looks down at the floor, “Can we… buy some shiny red apples for Ro－the horse?”

Jaskier makes a show of thinking it over for a moment, before nodding. “But of course. Roach was a very good girl, bringing the both of us all this way last night. I think she’s more than earned herself a little treat.” And then, “Would you like to feed it to her? I promise she won’t bite.”

It’s honest-to-gods embarrassing, how excited he is at the prospect of feeding his own horse. “Can I?” He shouldn’t even have to ask, not really. But it also feels… right? He’s not quite sure how to explain it.

“Of course!” He takes out another hanky and wets it with the water skin, before taking his time cleaning up the rest of the mess from Geralt’s face. “I know I’ve told you a lot of bad stuff about the Witcher, but… he’s also a really nice man, deep down in here.” He taps Geralt’s chest, right over his heart. “And he loves kids.”

“He does?” He wouldn’t say that he  _ loves _ kids, but… He wants to protect their innocence. Keep them happy and smiling for as long as he can. He only wishes that he had had someone there to do the same for him.

That, and kids－generally－don’t look at him like he’s a monster, or a freak. Hatred of Witchers is not born, it’s cultivated. Children will look on him in fascination, ask dozens of questions that border on too-personal, ask for gory stories about his latest hunts, and ask to look at his weapons. They do not treat him as less-than just because of a few mutations that he never asked for. 

And Jaskier… Jaskier had never treated him as lesser, either. Even when they’d first met, when Jaskier had all but admitted to the fact that his sole purpose for plastering himself to the Witcher’s side was to stir his muse so that he could start to bring in coin… He’d wanted to extol the virtues of Geralt of Rivia. He wasn’t writing songs to belittle him, or to inspire fear, or anything like that. Even when he’d referenced Blaviken, he hadn’t meant to be cruel. He was just repeating what he’d heard－he didn’t know,  _ couldn’t have known _ , the truth. Not until Geralt told him.

Jaskier was the only one who listened.

“He does.” Jaskier continues, “I think he feels a sort of kinship with them.” He falls silent for a moment, “I think he’s a little envious of them, too. They feel things so intensely, so  _ freely _ . They’re not afraid of the ramifications of their emotions. They just  _ feel _ .”

Geralt has been in this body for less than two days, and if he’s learned anything at all, it’s that he’s tired of feeling. “So… do you think it’s true, that Witchers don’t feel?”

“Complete and utter poppycock.” Jaskier huffs. “Witchers feel, just like any other creature. But when you’re treated like absolute shite for almost a century, you start to learn how to hide your emotions from others.” Once he’s finished, he pinches Geralt’s cheek. “But they  _ do _ feel. Very deeply.”

“Do you know what the Witcher was feeling, up on the mountain?”

The bard shrugs, “I think he was hurt and scared, and he lashed out at the first person he thought would roll over and take it. I don’t think he expected me to actually leave, but－,” here, his smile falters a little bit, “to tell you the truth, I’m not the least bit sorry I did.”

* * *

“There you are, nice and easy－,” Jaskier is standing watch as Geralt feeds Roach a shiny red apple, just as he’d promised. Geralt is not the least bit impressed by the fact that he needs to stand on a godsdamned stool in order to reach the horse’s mouth.

“Good horsey…” he says, petting her mane ever so gently. Roach chomps at the apple, lets out a disapproving whinny, and headbutts him in the chest. 

The baby Witcher never stood a chance, especially considering that even full-sized Geralt could be knocked back a few paces by one of Roach’s headbutts. The stool rocks ominously, and Geralt lets out a startled little shout as he loses his balance and goes toppling back into Jaskier’s chest. Thank fuck he was standing right there, otherwise that whole… two and a half foot drop would’ve been disastrous. Gods, he’s a mess. 

He wishes that he knew more about his new body’s limitations. Unfortunately, he can’t really test anything out without putting himself in grave peril, and he’s almost one-hundred percent certain that Jaskier would not approve. The few odds and ends that he  _ does _ know－such as the fact that his eyesight had reverted back to that of a normal, human child’s－makes him think that the odds of maintaining things like his advanced healing were slim to none. Which meant that he definitely needed to avoid things like toppling off of the tops of stools or falling off of the backs of horses while traveling. 

“Now, Roach, that wasn’t very nice at all.” Jaskier is quick to come to his defense, chastising the horse for what was, arguably, her attempt at telling him to get his shit together and just  _ tell the bard the truth already _ . “And here I was, telling little Gerard all about what a sweet girl you are－,”

Roach fixes him with a beady-eyed stare that seems to scream ‘ _ Gerard? Really?’ _ . He pouts, attempting to convey ‘ _ I was nervous, you can’t expect perfection’. _ “It’s okay. She didn’t hurt me.”

“She could have, though.” Jaskier says as he sets the little boy to rights on the stool. “Now, if you can play nice with Gerard here, I’ll let him feed you  _ one _ more apple. We wouldn’t want to spoil you, after all.”

Once Roach has finished her final apple, Jaskier takes Geralt back to the inn, where he arranges to perform that night. Geralt feels kind of bad, knowing that they’re short on coin because Jaskier spent a literal fortune on him that afternoon… but when Jaskier asks him whether he’d rather have an early night or come downstairs and listen to him play, he readily accepts the offer of free entertainment. He wonders if Jaskier’s music will sound different to him, now that he’s little. Will he play something happy (he’s almost desperate enough to ask for  _ Toss a Coin _ － _ almost _ )? Or will he stick to more maudlin tunes, like what he sang as he descended the mountain?

Jaskier sits him down at the bar, and the innkeep brings him a tall glass of milk and a piece of warm honeycake on the house. He tries to smile, and thinks he manages something that is definitely not a grimace. He breaks off a piece of cake as Jaskier tunes his instrument, and pops the sweet confection into his mouth. It’s light and airy, and just a bit on the gooey side. Not too sweet, but not bitter either. It’s something that would’ve been palatable to him as a Witcher, but now, as a six-year-old child, he cannot help but wish that it was just a  _ wee _ bit sweeter. He wants enough sugar to be able to stay up through Jaskier’s entire performance.

_ Why so sad _ _   
_ _ Why won’t you let me follow in your footsteps as you trek into that underground world _ __   
_ What’s that hold that the big dark king of nothing has got on you my girl _ _   
_ __ Why do you go down

“Geralt.” The little boy jumps so high, he almost knocks over his glass of milk. Jaskier continues to sing off in the corner of the room, so who..? “I didn’t think that I would find you here.”


	6. Toss A Coin

“W-Who’re you?” Geralt asks. He knows who it is, of course. But he hopes that the man will believe the lie and leave him be－it’s dangerous for folks to be spouting his name like that, especially when Jaskier is so closeby. 

“Don’t play coy with me, young man. You know  _ exactly _ who I am.” He says, “The  _ real _ question is why you’re still in the body of a six-year-old child, when I’ve given you all the tools you need to break the curse.”

Geralt blinks. “ _ What _ ?”

“All you had to do was tell Jaskier the truth. A frightening task, mayhaps, but not one that was particularly difficult.” He continues, “As…  _ enjoyable _ as this chance to relive your childhood may be, Geralt, you’re not meant to be a six-year-old boy. Delaying your return to your proper body could have lasting consequences.”

Geralt takes a long sip of his milk, wondering just what he has to say to this man to make him understand that this is a very  _ bad _ time to talk. He already seems to know that he’s been keeping vital information away from Jaskier－he doesn’t trust that, if the bard were to take a quick break, or finish his set, and come over to the bar for something to wet his whistle, this man wouldn’t just blurt out his secret. And of course, while there’s nothing that would suggest that Jaskier would believe this man’s word over his own...

Jaskier has had a whole lot of nothing nice to say about Geralt. And that’s not－It’s not like he’s trying to say that he doesn’t deserve the younger man’s ire, because he  _ does _ . One-hundred percent. But he’ll tell him the truth when he’s ready to face the consequences of his actions (which is... never). And besides, where does this man get off, thinking that Geralt knew that he had the means to reverse the curse the whole damn time? He clearly doesn’t enjoy being trapped in a six-year-old’s body. Especially not when he still has the mental capabilities of an almost one-hundred year old mutant. If he’d known how to fix himself, he would’ve at least  _ tried _ . Probably.

But then, it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know what  _ truth _ he’s supposed to be telling Jaskier. The curse had been in affect for quite awhile before he’d lied to the bard about his identity, so clearly, that was not the truth that he was meant to tell. Or... it wasn’t the  _ whole _ truth, at least. He takes another bite of honeycake, if only so he doesn’t have to talk to his new companion right away. Even at six, only a handful of people make him feel the need to say more than a handful of words at a time. The only one even remotely nearby is currently performing, oblivious to Geralt’s current plight. Even the kindly innkeeper seems to be preoccupied at the moment.

“Consequences?” He asks, finally. Because, much as he may want to, he can’t just  _ not _ ask.

“Aside from the whole ‘the bardling will never forgive you for deceiving him for this long’ bit, you mean?” There’s no malice in the man’s tone, but it cuts Geralt to the quick nonetheless. He knows that he’s fucked up, okay? He doesn’t need everyone and their cousin taking turns reminding him of that fact.

He draws in a deep, shaky breath, and mumbles, “It’s not like he was going to forgive me, anyway.” Narrowing his steely blue eyes on the bubbles at the sides of his glass, he continues, “He’s told me that... that he doesn’t know that he could ever truly forgive me, for what I said on the mountain, and－,”

The man raises a brow, “You spoke ill to the bard on the mountain?”

Geralt pauses, little mouth turning down into a frown, “Wait... I thought that this...  _ curse _ , or whatever the hell it is, was punishment for the shit that I said to Jaskier on the mountain. That’s why－,”

“Geralt,” a heavy hand lands atop his shoulder, “this curse has everything－and nothing－to do with Jaskier.” And... okay, that made no sense at all. If the curse didn’t have anything to do with Jaskier, why did he have to tell Jaskier the truth in order to break it? And  _ what truth _ was he supposed to be telling him?

“You’re talking yourself in circles, old man.” Geralt huffs, growing less and less amused as this drones on.

“Who dropped everything to take care of you, Geralt?” The man supplies, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

“Jaskier.” 

“Who  _ has _ been taking care of you, ever since you met?” He continues.

And that... that’s not  _ fair _ . It’s not as though he  _ asked _ for Jaskier to follow him all around the Continent like a little lost duckling, tending to wounds that would heal in due time and fussing over the amount of food in his belly. He knew that Jaskier took care of him, that he’d been taking care of him for some twenty-odd years. Was this man trying to point out that Yennefer hadn’t come to him in his time of need? That Yennefer hadn’t stopped to help him when he’d been stranded on the side of the mountain? Because knowing Yennefer, as soon as she’d found out the truth about his wish, she’d opened a portal somewhere far,  _ far _ away and－

No, her absence didn’t mean anything special at all. Just like Jaskier happening to be in the right place at the right time also just happened to be a convenient twist of fate. It was Destiny smiling upon him for the first time in his bloody life, and frankly, he didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Because frankly, if Jaskier hadn’t been there, well... perhaps he could have found a way to make himself useful to the dwarves? Or... he could’ve tried his hand at making camp for the night and (if he’d survived) making his way, on foot, to town in the morning? Roach would’ve done her level best to shelter him, he knows. She’s a good horse.

“Can you just tell me,  _ plainly _ , why you’ve cursed me?” Geralt hisses, doing his best to keep his tone level. He forces a smile when one of the serving girls comes ‘round and tops off his milk for him. 

“You were so desperate for love that you’d seek out the power of a djinn to artificially manufacture it for you.” And－yes, okay. He can take a hint. He knows that that was bad. “You were so blinded by your own  _ pain _ , your own  _ desire _ , that you could not see what was right in front of you the entire time.”

Geralt frowns, “What..?”

“Or rather, what was walking just a few steps behind you.”

He takes another sip of milk, “I believe that I just told you exactly what Jaskier thinks of me－or,  _ Geralt _ －now that the whole business on the mountain has concluded. He wants absolutely nothing to do with me, and－,”

“You never did tell me what you could have said to him that is so unspeakably horrible he’d denounce you completely.” Geralt flinches, “I know that love is not an emotion you’ve experienced often, Witcher, but it’s not one that most people can turn on and off, like a switch. He can’t just...  _ stop _ loving you.”

“Well, he has.” Geralt huffs, “I－I told him that he was responsible for all the awful shit that’s happened in my life over the last twenty years, and...” he sniffles－curse children and their absolute inability to go for more than a handful of minutes at a time without crying. “I－I told him my life would be better without him in it.”

Silence. Then, a soft, “...oh dear.”

Geralt breaks off a too-large piece of honeycake and almost chokes on it. “Yes. Oh- _ fucking _ -dear. So do me a favor and save your holier than though speeches, because－,”

“Borch!” Jaskier’s exuberant voice cuts across the tavern－when had he stopped playing?!－and Geralt’s mouth snaps shut. He glares at the dragon for a moment, silently praying he’ll keep his trap shut, and resumes eating his honeycake. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again, after the mountain.”

And, of course... Jaskier didn’t know. He’d slept through the grand reveal, waking up just in time to discover that Borch, Tea, and Vea were still alive but... not quite understanding how. And when would he have asked for the specifics? In the midst of having his head ripped off by Geralt? Right... So he allows the two of them to talk, and lets Jaskier introduce him to the old dragon as though he were the bard’s son. Geralt and Borch share a glance that is rife with general unpleasantness and Jaskier orders a mug of ale that’s roughly the same size as his head. 

And they start talking about adult stuff, which is  _ boring _ . Even though he’s technically an adult. But being an adult  _ is _ boring and... well, he doesn’t like sharing Jaskier’s attention. It was one thing when Borch was bothering  _ him _ －and he knows, he knows, it couldn’t technically be considered  _ bothering _ him when all the old dragon was trying to do was  _ help _ ; but it was Borch’s fault that he was stuck in this ill-fitting body and he’d never finished telling Geralt how the hell he was supposed to get  _ out _ of it and－He takes a deep breath, and the waitress brings him more honeycake. And he really  _ shouldn’t _ , but it’s been a rough day, okay?

First, he fell down in front of the  _ whole _ town proper and scraped up his chin. That shit  _ still _ hurts.

Then, his own horse tried to kill him by knocking him off of a stool in the stables. After nearly a century, he almost met his end at the hands－hooves?－of a godsdamned horse with a vendetta. How underwhelming.

Then, he’d found out that Jaskier planned to travel to Lettenhove for the express purpose of hiding from him－or, well, the Witcher technically, but he  _ is _ the Witcher, so...

And  _ now _ he finds out that the blasted dragon, who ruined any chance of him having  _ anything _ with Yennefer, cursed him and now, won’t tell him how to fix it. Because that’s absolutely fair.

And then, to make matters  _ worse _ －”Your performance tonight... it was truly inspired. You have such a lovely singing voice.” A buxom blonde lays a delicate hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from Borch and Geralt. “It’s been awhile since we’ve been entertained by such a...  _ talented _ bard.”

“W-We..?” Jaskier croaks, just as another young woman－more than likely the first one’s sister－makes herself known, wiggling her svelte frame in-between Jaskier and Geralt and cuddling up to the bard’s side. 

“We’d love to hear some more of your songs.” The sister croons. Something in Geralt’s chest tightens, and he cannot help but find himself wishing that Jaskier won’t let himself be whisked away by these women. That he’d worry about leaving his not-child alone with this strange man...

But... “I suppose that I can do an encore.” He tries to sound put-upon, but he’s grinning too bright to make it anywhere near believable. “Will you be okay for a little while longer, Gerard? You’re not too tired, are you?”

“I’m－,” he’s barely even begun speaking before one of the women cuts him off.

“Is this your son? He’s  _ too _ cute!” 

And then suddenly, whatever it is that he was about to say doesn’t matter anymore. Because Jaskier is gone, swallowed up in the crowd of drunken revelers, and Geralt is left alone with Borch. He tries not to feel like he’s been abandoned. Jaskier has taken a fancy to many a young woman, or man, over the years－it’s never particularly bothered him where the bard’s chosen to sow his wild oats. Not to mention the fact that Jaskier isn’t actually doing anything with the women, save for serenading them, which is technically his job. He’s still within eye－well, within earshot. There’s absolutely nothing for him to be getting upset about...

Until Borch stands, sliding a few shiny golden coins across the bar to pay for his tab. “You’d save yourself a world of stress if you just accepted the fact that your bard... he’s smarter than he looks.” He inclines his head to the baby Witcher, “Geralt.” 


	7. Tell Me No Lies

Geralt... doesn’t know what in the hell that’s supposed to mean. 

Jaskier is smarter than he looks. Does that mean that he knows who Geralt is, and that he’s  _ known _ who Geralt is, if not from the very beginning, than at  _ least _ pretty damn close to it? But that’s impossible. No, impossible isn’t the right word. Illogical is better. He’s known Jaskier for two decades (though, to be fair, it certainly doesn’t feel like it). He knows Jaskier, and while he has a tremendous heart with an overwhelming capacity to forgive, Geralt’s behavior on the mountain was beyond the pale. No matter the circumstances, he wouldn’t be able to put all of those emotions aside to help Geralt with a curse he brought upon himself. He  _ wouldn’t _ .

Or maybe... He supposes that it’s possible that Jaskier has known the entire time, and has been letting bits and pieces of information slip over the last day and a half as a means of letting Geralt know where he stands. That he’s hurt, and he has absolutely no intention to forgive, but he’s not cruel. Even if Geralt brought this on himself, he doesn’t deserve to be thrown to the wolves, left to fend for himself in a world that’s been unfairly cruel to him in every form. But that... that’s cruel in it’s own way. Dangling everything before him that he  _ could _ have had, reminding him of just how  _ badly _ he’d fucked up everytime he opened his mouth to ask something else. 

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s lost his appetite. The barmaid glances at him, concerned, as he leaves the rest of his food untouched, and asks him if he’d fancy something else. Maybe something... a bit  _ lighter _ on the palette. He doesn’t really want anything, thinks he’d probably throw up if he tried to force anything else down, but he asks for a couple of shiny red apples anyhow. Even manages to muster a small, warbling smile when she hands them over for free. He sweeps them up into his oversized shirt and smuggles them out of the tavern when she’s not looking. Nobody spares a glance at a child that doesn’t even reach their waist. 

Roach is waiting for him, just like always. He plops down beside her without preamble, mumbling, “Hope you don’t mind if I come and sit with you for a little while. It’s... quiet in here.”

Roach snorts, before gently booping him on the shoulder with her nose. He knows that she knows that that’s not the real reason that he’s here, but she’ll let him lie to her if that makes him feel better. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says, with no real malice in his tone. Roach ignores him, and continues to stare at him knowingly, “I just… wanted to get out of there for a little bit. Jaskier won’t notice－he’s too busy with those wenches to care that I…  _ disappeared _ for awhile.”

Geralt reaches into his shirt and retrieves one of the apples he’d brought for Roach. “Besides, it’s not like anyone actually knows who I am in this form. They just think I’m some little kid that was abandoned by his mother. They feel…  _ pity _ … when they look at me. I’m not used to being  _ pitied _ .”

Roach chomps down on the sweet fruit with a decisive  _ crunch _ as Geralt continues, “Do you know what Borch told me? He said that Jaskier is smarter than he looks. What does that even mean?”

The horse gives a loud whinny by way of response, sounding almost irritated, like this is what she’s been trying to tell him all along. Which is entirely possible. He has a feeling that there are a lot of things that Roach has tried to tell him over the years, which he’s simply ignored because… well… he doesn’t really know. He didn’t come out of here to be judged by his horse. If nothing else, she, at least, is supposed to be on his side. Tears burning in the corners of his eyes, he wonders why he expected any different from this day. Things had been going  _ fine _ … that is, until Borch had decided to show up and ruin everything. 

Gods, he’s spent too long in this form already. He’s becoming  _ petulant _ , which－while not a good look on  _ anyone _ , in Geralt’s opinion－is certainly not good look on a century-old Witcher. Roach noses at his hair, as if trying to tell him to cheer-up. He’d probably appreciate it more, if he wasn’t so busy trying to decipher what in the hell Borch meant when he said that Jaskier is smarter than he looks. If he’s known Geralt’s true identity all along, and is only taking care of him out of…  _ pity _ … then surely he won’t mind if Geralt just…  _ disappears _ . Just… runs off with Roach in the middle of the night, and tracks down that gods-forsaken dragon and finds a way to make him break the curse. 

Of course, that’s assuming that he can mount his horse without assistance, and ride her for an extended period of time without falling onto his head. Which is… still a bit of a work in progress. 

“Gerard!” He’s torn from his thoughts by an almost panicked scream. He turns toward the entrance to the barn, where an out-of-breath Jaskier is standing, looking for all the world like he just watched someone eviscerate Roach. “Gerard, are you in here?!”

Something compels him to stand. “I-I’m over here.” Within seconds, Jaskier is on him, enveloping him in his surprisingly strong arms and lifting him clear off of the ground.

“What the hell were you thinking, running off like that? I was so scared… I thought that something had happened to you! You can’t just run off like that without telling someone,  _ anyone _ , where you’re going!” The bard admonishes.

“S-Sorry, I just… I was really missing the horse, that’s all.” He tries, almost certain that Jaskier won’t buy it.

It turns out that his instinct is correct, as it so often is. “Y-You missed the horse…?” Jaskier is staring at him like he’d suddenly grown a second head. “But we just visited the horse a couple of hours ago! If you would have just said something, we could have visited her before bed. You didn’t need to run off like that－,”

“I mean, I didn’t technically  _ run  _ anywhere.” If looks could kill… Geralt swallows hard and backtracks as quickly as possible, “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… I just…”

“You wanted to see the horse.” Jaskier repeats, though his tone is lacking any and all conviction. It’s clear that he knows that this isn’t the real reason that Geralt ran away, but he’s doing his level-best not to push the issue. If Geralt managed to run off undetected once, who’s to say he wouldn’t be able to do it again?

Geralt bites his bottom lip. Instead of answering directly, he says, “How was the rest of your set?” 

“My set?” Jaskier is still looking at him as if he’s lost his mind, “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re safe.” Geralt continues to stare at him blankly, not used to people showing their concern for him so openly. Or… well, showing concern for him at all. “It was about time to end the show, anyhow. Drunks don’t tip well.”

With a rueful smile, Jaskier shows a small cut on his shoulder, surrounded by a nasty, purplish-black bruise. Geralt has seen Jaskier weather enough silverware showers to know what that sort of injury is from, and it makes him sick to realize that he’s in absolutely no condition to defend his bard from the sick bastards that would cause him harm. He can say that he’ll defend him all he wants… Jaskier probably thinks that it’s just a cute thing that little boys say to those that they care about. Or, if his suspicions are correct and Jaskier  _ knows _ that he is actually Geralt, he’s probably laughing it up, knowing how far the fearsome Butcher of Blaviken has fallen…

So Geralt does the only thing that he can think of. He starts to tend to the wound. It’s remarkably small (but to get a wound much bigger from the likes of a butter knife would mean that Jaskier would have had to be  _ stabbed _ , and then they would have a problem－miniature human body or no, he would find a way to make heads  _ roll _ ), but even the smallest of wounds can become infected, and after everything he’s been through with Jaskier, he’s not about to lose him to an  _ infection _ . He might not be used to tending to wounds, but he’s watched Jaskier do it often enough that he knows what to do. Kind of. 

Why would anyone want to hurt someone as sweet as Jaskier? He curses underneath his breath－hopefully low enough that Jaskier won’t hear－he’s not looking for another lecture, thank you－as he cleans out the cut and applies a topical ointment to the area to help with the bruising. Jaskier is a decent patient, for the most part. He can probably sense that Geralt is on-edge, and is doing his best not to make things worse. 

But… just the knowledge that Jaskier had gotten hurt when he went out to have a brood makes him feel like actual shit. He doesn’t think that it’s possible to feel any lower. 

“Did that man upset you earlier?” He asks. It takes Geralt a minute to understand who and what they’re talking about.

“N-No, he… I’m not… He didn’t upset me.” He says, a little too fast, a little too uncertain. He covers Jaskier’s wound using too much gauze and immediately moves to put as much distance between them as possible. “He just… confused me as all. He said something that… it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Jaskier snorts, “Old men tend to be like that. Rambling on about everything and nothing, without a care for whether any of it actually makes sense.” He rolls his shoulder a bit, testing out the range of his new bandages. “Do you want to talk about what he said?”

Geralt bends to retrieve one of the red apples that’d fallen from his shirt, “I don’t… I don’t know. I feel like, if I tell you, it’ll make you…” he honestly doesn’t know how to finish that thought－all of the words that his brain supplies to try and fill in the blank are Not Good. “Mad? And I don’t… I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

The bard reaches out, ruffling Geralt’s head of mousy brown curls, “I highly doubt you’ve done anything in the last couple of hours to warrant me being properly mad at you, kid. I wasn’t even really mad about you running off like that－,”

“...Even if I-I lied to you?”


	8. And the Curse is... Broken?

“If you… lied to me? What in the world are you talking about, Gerard?” Jaskier looks at him as though the idea of Geralt lying to him is absolutely unfathomable, and it makes the Witcher’s chest ache. Nobody should ever look upon him with such unshakeable trust—

“Stop _calling_ me that!” He screams. He’s not sure when he started crying, but the tears are falling freely now, mixing with his snot and making a proper mess of his face. “T-That’s not my name!”

“Not your…?” The bard trails off, uncertain. A hint of doubt flickers in his cornflower eyes.

He takes a deep breath and blurts, “I’m _Geralt_! _Geralt_ , you absolute _idiot_!” He wants to be angry. Anger would be easier for his brain to process than… _whatever_ this is. Tears continue to pour down his cheeks as he continues, “The asshole Witcher that broke your heart on the mountain? Ringing any bells, bard?”

There’s a long, tense moment of silence. Then, “I’ve known that it was you the entire time, Geralt.”

Geralt’s tirade sputters to a stop, “You… _what_? But that’s… that’s _impossible_.” But it _wasn’t_. Not really. In fact, it was just like Borch had said. “So what, you got some sort of sick thrill out of telling a child-size version of me how much of an ass I am? If you knew that it was me the whole time, why didn’t you _say_ something?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “How about we start with _you_ telling _me_ why you lied?”

Geralt opens his mouth, though whether he intended to answer Jaskier’s question, or meet him with some sort of sarcastic remark, is unclear, as something far more pressing occurs to him in that moment. He came clean to Jaskier. He told him the truth—that he wasn’t some random child that Jaskier had happened across at the base of the mountain, that he was the Witcher who’d broken Jaskier’s heart, who’d been transformed into a six-year-old child by a meddlesome dragon—and nothing had changed. He’s still stuck in this damnable body, and suddenly, he’s so unbelievably _angry_ that he’s shaking.

Had Borch lied to him? He supposes that it’s possible, but it doesn’t really seem like something that the old dragon was apt to do. Borch dealt in the truth, no matter bitter of a pill it might’ve been to swallow. He certainly hadn’t hesitated to pull the rug out from underneath Yennefer. If he truly was the one that’d placed the curse on him, he wouldn’t lie about how to break it. So did that mean that he’d somehow misunderstood what the dragon had meant? No. That was impossible. He might tell Jaskier the occasional half-truth, if it meant keeping him safe, but the only outright _lie_ he’s told him recently was concerning his identity.

But maybe _that_ is the problem. Maybe whatever lie that is keeping him in this form isn’t recent. Geralt wracks his brain for what it could possibly be, his lips pursing as he tries, desperately, to remember. Why is this so _hard_? Jaskier attempts to reach for him, to pull him out of his own head and back into the present, but Geralt won’t have it. He shrugs off Jaskier’s hand with a bit more force than necessary, not even realizing that he’s snubbed his friend for the second time in just a handful of days. There has to be _something_ that he’s missing—but what? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s constantly denying Jaskier’s friendship?

Geralt spins around to face Jaskier and completely redirects the conversation with a blunt, “I know that I don’t say this often—or… well, ever… but you are a wonderful friend. Truly. The best I’ve ever had, or could ever ask for.” He says this with all of the sincerity he _lacked_ every time he denied the bard his due, and still, _nothing_.

Jaskier smiles thinly, “You have a funny way of showing your friendship, Geralt of Rivia. Not _once_ in twenty years did you admit that I was anything more than an annoyance to you… until now. Now, after your belittle me on that mountain, lie to me about your true identity for _days_ , and come at me with all sorts of accusations… _now_ you deign to call this humble bard your friend.”

The pint-sized Witcher scowls, “Would you _quit it_ with your little ‘mountain sob-story’ already?! I _know_ that I fucked up, you don’t need to keep lording it over me—,”

“ _Lording it over_ —,” Jaskier blinks at him dumbly, “Since when is _expecting an apology_ after your so-called friend blames his myriad of poor decisions and chronic short-sightedness on you _lording_ something over you? If you would just _apologize_ —,”

“I’m sorry!” He snaps, sounding wholly venomous and not at all repentant. “There? Is that better now?”

“You know what? Apparently I was foolish, thinking all of _this_ ,” he gesticulates wildly, “might actually teach you something about getting along with others. You want to know why I stuck around, Geralt? Because I thought that maybe that’d show you that I actually _give two shits_ about you! That, unlike _everyone else_ , I was the one that’d stay. Because I was the human foolish enough to—,”

He stops abruptly, his eyes growing wide as he realizes what he’d almost said. Geralt feels all of his anger melt away the moment he realizes that Jaskier is crying. The last time that he’d seen Jaskier crying, it had been back on the mountain, when the bard was singing that melancholic song about lost love. How did it go again? _The best men die of a broken heart of the things they cannot tell_ … The bard scrubs at his eyes with lute-calloused hands, muttering a variety of obscenities underneath his breath that would, under normal circumstances, be most improper to say in front of children. But these were about as far from ‘normal’ circumstances as one could get.

Geralt expects him to leave. He doesn’t. Instead, he collapses heavily onto one of the nearby hay bales and buries his face in his hands, letting his tears come freely. He’s full-on sobbing now, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do. Especially as he _knows_ that this is his fault. Acts of comfort had never come naturally to him, even in a form as small and unassuming as this. He could offer a… hug? He’d learned not too long ago that he liked it when Jaskier hugged him… sometimes. Sometimes, he didn’t like to be touched. Not just by Jaskier, but by anyone. It made him _feel_ too many things, and then his chest would get all tight and it would get difficult to breathe, and—

Does Jaskier feel like that sometimes? Just… overloaded and overwhelmed? He doesn’t know. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know much about the bard, despite having been travelling with him for twenty some years. How old had the bard been when they’d first met in Posada? He’s not the most knowledgeable when it comes to humans, but he knows enough to know that even the healthiest of their kind don’t live much past seventy. With Jaskier’s penchant for walking headlong into danger, that number is probably closer to sixty. Which meant, at best, they had another twenty or so years. And that… that was nothing more than a blink of an eye to Geralt.

How much does Jaskier know about him? He’s honestly not sure whether he wants to know the answer. Jaskier is the type who remembers all of the little things, like which essential oils are offensive to his nose and what kind of seasonings he can stomach with his sensitive palette. And that’s when he remembers… back on the mountain, when Jaskier had looked him over once before asking permission to touch him, to pick him up. He really did know from the start, didn’t he? And he wanted to make sure that he wasn’t doing anything that would make Geralt uncomfortable. And just like that, tears begin prickling in the corners of his eyes again.

“Is that… really… why?” He doesn’t know how to better articulate all of the questions buzzing about in his head, but thankfully, Jaskier seems to understand. The bard gives a small, barely there nod. “Then, really. You should just… go. It’s not… _I’m_ not…”

Jaskier shakes his head, staring up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think that you understand, Geralt. I’ve travelled with you for _twenty years_. I’ve dedicated my _entire career_ to dragging your name out of the mud and humanizing you in the eyes of the people.” He says. “You may be able to go on without me, Geralt, but what am I without you?”

Geralt frowns, “Don’t say that. Life has plenty more to offer you—,”

“Oh, yes? Then please enlighten me.” He says, “I could return home and assume my title as viscount. Marry a perfectly dull woman less than half my age, who’ll bear me more children than I have fingers. I’ll spend my days wining and dining the upper class, having lavish parties where I flaunt my hubris, and generally hate my life until the day I die. Yes, that sounds positively _wonderful_.”

And yet, Geralt thinks, he’d been willing to do it. Before Geralt ever had reason to suspect that Jaskier knew the truth, Jaskier had talked about bringing him back to his family’s lands, where he would assume his title. Back then, he certainly hadn’t sounded as though it would be so… well, mind-numbingly _awful_. He’d almost made it sound… like an adventure. But he supposed that made sense, considering that, for all intents and purposes, he was speaking to a six-year-old child. And there was no reason to burden a child with the toils of adulthood. But that meant… how many other sacrifices had Jaskier made for him over the years…?

But Jaskier clearly isn’t done. “Or—yes, that’s it! I could try to make a living on the three songs that I’ve written that _aren’t_ about you. Why haven’t I performed them before, you ask? Oh, that’s right… Because nobody wants to hear anything except _Toss A Coin to Your_ bloody fucking _Witcher_ , and if I try to perform songs about _anything_ else, I’ll starve within the week. If I’m not fatally skewered by silver first.”

The baby Witcher narrows his eyes at Jaskier, “…wait, you mean to tell me that you _know_ how annoying it is to constantly hear that thrice-damned song, and yet you _still_ chose to play it as traveling music?”

“That’s not the point!” Jaskier huffs. He deflates almost immediately thereafter, however. “My _point_ is that I screwed myself over royally twenty years ago. I just never realized the full extent of the damage until you showed me exactly how much I _don’t_ mean to you—,”

“You don’t know shit, Jaskier.”

“Oh? Then please, do enlighten me. You already know that all my cards are on the table. I’ve been incredibly forthcoming with my emotions.” That is… very true. Geralt is well-aware of where he currently stands with Jaskier. But he’s less sure of what _he’s_ feeling, especially now that all of his emotions feel so damn _big_ for his tiny little body. And so the silence stretches on, “At least tell me why you suddenly decided to come clean about your identity.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, before admitting, “I-I thought that it would… break the curse.”

“The curse?”

“The curse.”

“The one that turned you into a child.” Geralt’s left eye twitches. He kind of wants to thunk Jaskier upside the head—what the hell kind of stupid question is that? Is there _another_ curse that he should know about? Instead, he nods.

Jaskier sniffles, and there’s that utterly disgusting _slurp_ of mucus again. Ugh. Even without his enhanced hearing, there are some sounds that are just spine-chillingly _nasty_. He cleans his face with a delicately embroidered handkerchief that is likely worth more gold than Geralt’s seen in his entire life, before rising to his feet and… is he _leaving_? Oh no. No, no, no. He’s not allowed to leave. They still have unfinished business. They need to _talk_ , damn it! (The irony of _Geralt_ being the one to chase _Jaskier_ down to talk would be lost on him until several hours later.) He reaches out to grab hold of the sleeve of Jaskier’s doublet and—

“Don’t leave. Please.” His mouth struggles to form the word, and he wonders how long it’s been since he’s used it. Probably quite awhile. Witchers aren’t necessarily known for asking for things _nicely._

When Jaskier turns to him then, it’s as if the bard is looking straight through him. “Do you even know why you want me to stay? And I swear, if you feed me some horseshit about how I’m the only one that can break the curse…” he looks him up and down dismissively. “Yennefer always wanted a child. I’m sure that the two of you would be very happy together.”

Something tightened in Geralt’s chest at the idea of his bard going away again, “N-No. _Please_.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, his expression hard. Until finally, he grumbles, “You should’ve already figured out that I’m not going anywhere, Geralt.” He rolls his eyes, missing the way that Geralt’s entire body seems to sag in relief. “But if we’re going to stick together, that means that you’re going to tell me _everything_ that you know about this curse. _Now_.”


	9. A Dip in the River

Geralt tells him what he knows—which is, admittedly, not much.

His story does not start with the mountain. It starts some twenty years earlier, in a small tavern in Posada. After years of being trained to suppress anything stronger than mild irritation, it was there that he met a bard with no sense of self-preservation to speak of. A bard with a mouth that ran a mile a minute, who made him feel true, blistering _anger_ for the first time in so long… But as time continued to march onward, he began to feel _other_ things as well. Emotions so foreign to him that he did not even know their name. But they felt almost… _pleasant_? He honestly didn’t know how else to describe them. But being with Jaskier made him feel _good_ , better than he had in a long time.

He didn’t deserve it. Witchers… they don’t deserve that kind of happiness. But still, he allowed himself to be selfish, allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of being treated like his life actually meant something. He doesn’t know how to convey to Jaskier how terrifying it is to feel wanted, needed, _appreciated_ after years of being spit upon and told that he was nothing more than a monster. He doesn’t know how to convey the literal floodgate that Jaskier’s kindness opened up within him—how to make him understand that the outburst on the mountain likely never would have happened if he hadn’t of loved and supported him _so damn much_. And yet…

It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault, he _knows_ that, but… it’s _hard_ , okay? Because it isn’t _his_ fault, either. Okay, what happened on the mountain is absolutely his fault, and he can take the fall for that—because he _should_ take the fall for that—but he has to understand… it’s been so long since he’s felt anything at all, everything about their friendship, his relationship—or lack thereof—with Yennefer, about being turned into a fucking _child_ … it’s new and overwhelming and fucking _terrifying_. And yeah, he’s lousing it all up. But what did he really expect? You cannot demand perfection the first time someone does or experiences something— _that’s not fair_ , and—

“Geralt? Geralt!” A gentle hand cups his chin, turning his head so that they’re eye-to-eye. “You’re going to hyperventilate if you keep on like that. I know that I told you that you needed to tell me the truth, but that doesn’t mean you should forgo breathing—,”

Geralt’s mouth twists into what can only be described as a pout, “B-But… I don’t want you to _leave_!” Melitele, is he _whining_? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. A dark blush spreads across his cheeks as he averts his eyes from Jaskier’s, struggling to free himself from the bard’s lute-calloused hand.

Jaskier purses his lips, “I shouldn’t have said that, okay? I’m not going anywhere. At least, not tonight.”

“R-Really?” Geralt’s misty eyes flicker back to him, wide and hopeful. Jaskier offers him a small smile and a nod.

“Yeah.” He confirms, before drawing back and extending his arms. Geralt stares at him for a moment, before tumbling headlong into his embrace and burying his little tear-stained face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “C’mon, I’m sure that you must be exhausted. Let’s head back to the room.”

For a moment, Geralt seems as though he wants to protest. But then he just wipes his nose on his shirt sleeve—Jaskier grimaces and presses a handkerchief into his palm—and mumbles, “I… could sleep. I guess.”

“You _guess_?” The bard snorts. “You act like you actually have a choice in the matter, _Gerard_.” He rolls his eyes, chuckling softly to himself. “Speaking of which, whatever possessed you to use such an _obvious_ fake name?”

Geralt is too busy studying the handkerchief to respond at first. When Jaskier pokes him in the side, however, he huffs and responds, “I was… I-I _panicked_ , alright? It seemed like a good choice at the time!” Then, all of the color drains out of his face as he asks in a hushed whisper, “You really _did_ know the entire time, didn’t you?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt can think of a number of reasons why, but he doesn’t say any of them out-loud. Jaskier is actually talking to him—and, even better still, he hasn’t kicked him to the curb yet—so he decides that it’s best to not press his luck. At least, not for tonight. And, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, he is just a _little_ tired. It’s nothing that a quick power nap won’t solve. And since Jaskier also happens to be going that way, and seems to be inclined to carry him, he can’t think of a valid reason to turn up his nose at the bard’s generosity. So he gives Roach’s snout a few goodnight pats and lets Jaskier carry him back into the tavern and up to their room.

He’s so tired that he doesn’t realize when Jaskier places him on his own bed in the corner, far, far away from the bard’s comforting warmth. He’s not sure that he would have any right to protest Jaskier’s choice anyway, not with everything that’d come to light. The bard tucks him in beneath soft furs, before extinguishing the lantern alongside his bed. As the room is plunged into darkness, he is lulled into a mostly peaceful sleep by the sound of the bard shuffling to and fro as he readies himself for bed. The fact that he never hears the soft rustle of Jaskier turning down the furs on his own bed, nor the sound of shuffling straw as he adjusts himself on the mattress, does not trouble him at all.

* * *

“You look… awful. Did you not sleep at all?” Geralt himself is perfectly well-rested and ready to attack the day with all the vigor of a six-year-old child. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks as though he found himself on the wrong end of a prize fight.

“It’s nothing for you to worry your little head about, Witcher.” Jaskier says, ruffling Geralt’s chocolate curls. “My lady muse simply came to me late last night. She is a fickle mistress, and I must write when she brings me inspiration…” He swoons, not unlike he does when speaking of the Countess.

Geralt frowns, “You’re not thinking about writing a song about all of _this_ , are you?” He gestures vaguely to his cursed body, not feeling the need to elaborate further.

Jaskier shrugs, “If you _must_ know, Geralt, you are not my only source of inspiration.”

“Funny, because that’s certainly not what it sounded like when you were screaming at me last night about how _Toss A Coin_ has ruined your career.” He huffs.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I did not say that you were my only source of inspiration. I said that you were the only subject worth writing about, as public fascination with the great _White Wolf_ means any tale of your adventures is guaranteed to sell. My music is simply a tool by which I give the people what they want.”

“Lies?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, Geralt, darling… I don’t _lie_.” He says, with an almost wolfish grin. “I simply make the truth sound that much more appealing.”

“Funny, that sounds an awful lot like lying to me.”

Jaskier seems… _different_ today. He doesn’t really know how to describe it, but whatever it is extends far beyond the fact that he may or may not have gotten an adequate amount of sleep the night before. But, whatever it is, Geralt doesn’t want to push. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so terrified of being left on his own before. But then, even when Visenna left him on Vesemir’s doorstep, so to speak, he’d never been well and truly _alone_. Yes, she had abandoned him. There was truly no other way to look at it. But he’d had Eskel, and eventually Lambert (when the younger Witcher could be bothered to be halfway pleasant), and Vesemir.

Now, if Jaskier were to leave him, he’d be all by himself. And though he’d spent years travelling the Path on his own, he’d come to need Jaskier and appreciate his presence in a way that he couldn’t quite articulate with words. His time with Jaskier had changed him—whether for better or worse, he didn’t know—and, if nothing else, he knew that he could not go back to the way that things were before. He was no longer a solitary creature. He needed companionship of some kind. He’d tried to explain that to Jaskier the night before, but he’d gotten all tongue-tied and emotional and… Well, it’d been an unpleasant experience all around.

But there’s something else, too. There’s a part of him that’s genuinely concerned for Jaskier’s well-being. But it feels like… more than just a strong, deeply rooted desire to make sure that Jaskier is okay. It’s almost like… like the idea of Jaskier never smiling again is something that he simply cannot abide. The thought _physically_ hurts him. But even so, he doesn’t know what to do or say to make Jaskier start smiling again. He doesn’t even know if Jaskier would believe him if he told him that it would make him happy to see him smile. He’s told him so many lies already… what’s one more? And so he accepts Jaskier’s words at face value, with a hesitant little half-smile.

“D-Do you, um…” He doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to talk to Jaskier all of a sudden. Cursing silently to himself, he presses on, “Do you have any plans for today?” Usually, it would be Geralt setting the itinerary… but considering that he considers himself next to useless in this form, he’s more than willing to defer to Jaskier’s judgment.

“Hmm… well, I do suppose that we’re stuck here until the tailor and cobbler are finished with your new wardrobe.” Jaskier says, “I don’t see the harm in taking the day off. We could go to the forest—I’m sure you’d be able to amuse yourself playing in a stream for awhile.”

Geralt puffs out his little cheeks, “Play? In the… stream?” If he knew what ‘playing’ was, once upon a time, it’s been so long since he’s done it that he’s forgotten.

“Mhmm.” Jaskier nods, “You could skip rocks across the water. It’ll be more of a challenge now that you don’t have your heightened strength.” He says, “Or you could swim. The water shouldn’t be too deep, so I wouldn’t have to worry about you drowning, and the current isn’t strong enough to sweep you away—,”

He cocks his head to the side, chocolate curls bouncing, “And what would you do?”

“Me?” He touches a hand to his chest, “I’d write, most likely. Perhaps take a nap under the shade of a tremendous oak. Nothing too strenuous. This _is_ supposed to be a day off, after all.”

“Indeed.” Jaskier seems to find it quite amusing that, even in his six-year-old form, many of Geralt’s statements are accompanied by grunts. “And playing like this… it will be… _fun_?” Geralt asks, little brows furrowing.

“That is the idea, yes.”

He has to admit, it’s not an awful idea. And it’s also a way to burn off all the excess energy bubbling up inside of him. Are all kids this energetic? He can’t remember the last time that he woke up without at least half a dozen different places on his body crying for mercy. In fact, now that he thinks about it… _every_ part of his body has been transformed into that of a normal, healthy six-year-old. He knows that that seems kind of obvious, but… It occurs to him now, for the first time, that there is not a scar to be seen anywhere on his pale skin. He runs his hands over his face, his arms, his legs, as if he’s feeling his own skin for the very first time. And in a way, he is.

Is this what it felt like to not be in pain all of the time? To live in a body that had not been destroyed by the very monsters that it was created to vanquish? Gods, maybe… maybe this wasn’t so bad. If he doesn’t manage to find a way to break the curse… does that mean that he can continue to remain in this body indefinitely? That he doesn’t have to be a Witcher anymore? Something twists inside his stomach at the thought. There’s something about the idea of never being able to be a Witcher again that scares him more than whatever it is he needs to tell Jaskier to break this blasted curse. If he’s not a Witcher anymore, what purpose does his life have?

Not to mention the fact that Borch mentioned that there could be… unintended consequences should he delay returning to his body for longer than absolutely necessary. Not that the meddlesome dragon had actually taken the time to explain what those consequences might be…

“Are you feeling quite alright, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, waving his hand in front of the other’s face. “You seemed to go off into your own little world there for a moment.”

Geralt shakes his head, his tiny ringlet curls dancing every which way. “No, I… I’m fine. Let’s go to the forest, then. I want to swim.”


	10. My Reflection

The water is absolutely freezing, and he loves it. Loves that, for the first time in recent memory, his skin is sensitive enough to register the difference between the temperature of the water and the temperature of the air. 

It takes a little while for his body to adjust to the temperature enough to actually _swim_ , but he's happy enough to be outside, enjoying nature through the innocent eyes of a child. Everything is so different, so _beautiful_ in this form. It's almost as though, now that his senses have been dulled, he can finally see the world around him as it was truly meant to be seen. He turns back to Jaskier, to find that the bard has made himself comfortable beneath a nearby tree--close enough to be able to respond within a moment's notice should Geralt find himself in need of assistance, but far enough away that Geralt won't be able to splash his parchment with water while splashing in the stream. He has a sudden, overwhelming desire to invite him to come over and join him in the water, but...

He bites his lip. Things had been... _different_ , between him and Jaskier, ever since he'd come clean about his identity. He may've poked fun at Geralt for using such an obvious fake name, but... the usual sass that underlaid every interaction that they shared was gone. It occurs to him that this is likely due to the fact that he has yet to offer a genuine apology for what happened on the mountain. His mere presence presents Jaskier with a moral quandary--he _has_ to stay by Geralt's side, so long as he is cursed to remain in this form, unless he wants to take the weight of the potential consequences of abandoning him to his own devices upon his shoulders. It'd been easier when he was just a random child that Jaskier had happened upon at the base of the mountain. What was _right_ , and what was _wrong_ , had been so much clearer just a short while ago.

Pinching his nose, he drops his weight into the water. His entire forty-four pounds barely seem to make a ripple in the water--or, at least, that's what it seems to him. He swims for a little while, feeling the cool water rippling through his hair. He's surprised by how frequently he needs to come up for air. He needs to come up for air so much more often than he needed to when he was an adult Witcher, which is a tad frustrating, but he's having... _fun_. And that's an absolutely novel, and terrifying, thought. When was the last time that he'd actually had _fun_? 

He realizes, with a start--head breaking through the surface of the water to greedily suck in mouthfuls of air--that he doesn't actually know. 

"Is everything alright, Geralt?" Geralt jumps, not expecting to hear Jaskier's voice so near to him. He turns slightly, to find the bard squatting on the nearby riverbank. He has a soft, fluffy towel in hand. "Why don't you take a little break and have something to eat, hmm? I'm sure that you've worked up quite the appetite."

As if on cue, his stomach starts to rumble. Loudly. "I... I could eat." He didn't realize that Jaskier had planned that far ahead--he certainly hadn't seen the other man bring a picnic basket, or anything more substantial than a couple of flasks for water. "What are we--,"

"Fish," Jaskier doesn't wait for him to finish his sentence. "I caught a couple while you were busy playing. They're almost finished cooking."

Sure enough, a short ways away from the tree where the bard had set the tools of his trade, a couple of fish are cooking overtop of a small fire. He hadn't even known that Jaskier knew how to start a fire--though he supposes that it makes sense, considering he must have watched Geralt do it hundreds of times over the years. As far as catching the fish went... well, that was relatively easy, so long as he had a sturdy enough net. The bard had never been much for hunting, but he'd caught fish once or twice--usually when he was attempting to prove to the Witcher that he could actually be useful.

The fish have been delicately spiced and cooked to perfection. Geralt is amazed... and may be drooling, just a little bit. Jaskier carefully removes one of the fish and serves it to him, warning him to wait until it cools so that he doesn't burn his mouth. "T-Thank you, Jaskier." 

The other man's eyes widen, just a bit. "You know... I think that that very well might be the only time that you've ever thanked me for anything." There's no malice in his tone, but it _feels_ like there ought to be. "I don't know how much your palette has changed, considering..." he gestures vaguely to Geralt's new form, "so I seasoned it the way you would've liked it before all of this."

"So... bland?" He asks, raising one delicate brown eyebrow. Jaskier snorts out a laugh, a small, half-smile gracing his lips. 

"I mean, you're not wrong. Though I like to think that it's not actually _bland_." Jaskier says. "Now, make sure that you eat it all up before it gets cold. If you eat it all, then you can have some warm biscuits and honey for dessert." Despite his aversion to overly sweet foods, he'd seemed to really like the biscuits and honey at the tavern the other night, so...

Geralt tears off a hunk of fish and starts to chew. It's... absolutely _delicious_. "Mmm... what did you season this with?" He asks.

Jaskier taps his chin, "Hmm... basil, dill weed, onion, garlic, celery seed, oregano, lemon zest, and pepper." Geralt's eyes widen slowly. So many spices! And the fish... it's practically _melting_ in his mouth.

"I didn't know that you knew how to cook." He reflects, softly. He didn't necessarily mean for Jaskier to hear, but he does, because of course he does. 

"I'd wager that there are quite a few things that you don't know about me." He says, "You never seemed particularly interested in asking."

And while that's true, it hurts when Jaskier lays it out before him like that. It's not that he hadn't cared to ask, he cares about the other man a great deal--he proceeds to almost choke on his food when the full weight of that realization comes crashing down upon him. He... cares about Jaskier. Well, of course he does. Few others would so readily endanger themselves by binding themselves to a Witcher. Fewer still would go out of their way to call a Witcher their friend. But somehow... just thinking of Jaskier as his _friend_ doesn't seem to fit. He doesn't know how to describe it, but it feels kind of like trying to fit a square peg into a circular hole. So where does that leave him? He doesn't know. If there is a word to describe what he feels for Jaskier, something stronger than 'care', he doesn't know it.

It's... distinctly different than what he felt for Yennefer. He cared for her, too, though it's unclear to him now how much of those feelings were actually genuine and how much were the result of magical interference with a mind that'd never known true love. When she'd left him on the mountain, it'd hurt. Of course it had. But Jaskier leaving him had hurt so much more because _Jaskier was never supposed to leave_. Jaskier's life was in mortal peril _all the damn time_. He'd never cared. He'd foolishly trusted a Witcher to ensure that his head remained firmly attached to his shoulders. He'd trusted Geralt to keep him safe from those things that go bump in the night, from those things that wanted to hurt him. And Geralt... had _liked_ being trusted. Yennefer had never trusted him. Never. 

And Geralt had betrayed that trust in a moment of rage, and now Jaskier didn't trust him, either. He still stood alongside him, still travelled with him, but their relationship had been irrevocably damaged by one little outburst. Why does that hurt _so much more_? 

"But do you want to know something?" Jaskier breaks the silence after a long while, "Before all of this... I didn't know that you were capable of crying. So I suppose we both have quite a bit we still need to learn about each other, even after all this time." A calloused thumb brushes a stray tear from his cheek. 

"Y-You must hate me." His chest stings, just uttering the word. "I wouldn't blame you, if you did." 

Jaskier withdraws a little, before taking a significant chunk of Geralt's cheek and pinching it gently. "I suppose that it would be easier if I could hate you. But I don't."

Something inside of Geralt _snaps_ at that, "Why not? You _should_ hate me! I'm a horrible friend--I spent the first months of our friendship trying to make your life so miserable you'd see that life upon the Path was not for non-Witchers and make you leave on your own! You said for yourself that I've never thanked you for any of your contributions--,"

Jaskier shrugs, "I mean, you just did. It's better late than never, right?" And that's... valid, but it does very little to calm Geralt. It's not even like the bard is offering him his forgiveness--all he's doing is saying that he doesn't outright _hate_ him for treating him like absolute garbage all of these years. He should be _happy_ about that, and yet...

"It would be easier if you hated me." He huffs, sounding half-petulant. 

Jaskier just laughs, "I know. I think that's part of the reason why I don't. Besides... life is short. Holding onto all of that hate just makes it that much shorter."

That... doesn't really sound like something Jaskier would say. This was the same man that would've used one of his djinn wishes to _kill_ a man for... well, he'd never actually had the chance to ask Jaskier what Valdo Marx had done to warrant death, but still. The fact is that Jaskier can--and _does_ \--hold grudges. It seems _odd_ for him to be so nonchalant about this. Unless... well, it could very well be that he recognizes Geralt's desire to self-flagellate for exactly what it is, and by taking the ability away from him, realizes that he can make the baby Witcher suffer more. That's... absolutely _diabolical_. If that's the truth, he's actually, almost impressed. 

But that doesn't mean that he has to like Jaskier's answer. Or trust it, for that matter. 

He decides that the best course of action would be to change the subject, "So... what were you working on while I was swimming?" He takes another bite of food once he feels like he can successfully keep it down.

"A drawing." Jaskier shrugs. Geralt stares at him blankly--first, he finds out that the bard is actually an incredibly skillful cook, and now he discovers that he can _draw_. Fuck, he _really_ needs to start paying more attention. "What's with that look on your face, hmm? I'll have you know that I am a man of many talents, the majority of which remain undiscovered." He says.

"I'm... beginning to see that." Geralt takes another bite of fish, "What is it a drawing of?"

Jaskier gives another noncommittal shrug, "You."

Geralt nearly chokes, "M-Me?"

He'd never considered himself to be a particularly interesting subject before, so when Jaskier admits that this is not the first time he's drawn a portrait of him, he finds himself flabbergasted... and at a complete loss for words. And then Jaskier is offering to _show_ him the pictures, and Geralt finds himself nodding his assent, despite an unmistakable knot of fear taking root in his belly. He's a monster. He's _hideous_. More than a fair share of people have told him as much over the years. Even the most flattering rendering of his image will no doubt make _all_ of this all the more obvious...

But when Jaskier shows him the first picture, all he feels is... _warmth_. It is clear that the artist has a great deal of care for his subject, because, although the imperfections that Geralt has always despised about himself are all present, they've been presented to the viewer in such a way that they almost seem like... like something to be _proud_ of. Geralt flips through the portraits, eyes burning for an entirely different reason as he beholds work that makes him seem almost... _pretty_. No, pretty isn't quite the right word. Pretty implies a level of _delicacy_ that a Witcher like himself could never hope to achieve. But 'handsome' doesn't seem to quite fit, either. If there is a word to accurately describe how he is portrayed in Jaskier's work, it is as lost to him as that which would define how he feels for the bard.

At last, he reaches the portrait that Jaskier had drawn that afternoon. It is of him in the stream, one of the times that his head had broken the surface of the water. Droplets of water drip from his dark, ringlet curls, somehow managing to glitter upon the parchment despite the black and white coloring of the piece. And he's... _smiling_. He didn't know that he looked like that when he smiled. Well... he certainly looks different when he smiles as an adult, but... he looks so genuinely _happy_ that it makes his heart skip a beat. He doesn't know how to tell Jaskier how much seeing these has meant to him, so he settles for a soft:

"These... are really beautiful, Jas." He sniffles a little, cursing his lack of control over his emotions, as he hands the pad of parchment back to his companion.

"Yes, well... beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps you would've been able to start seeing yourself as I see you a long time ago if you'd actually listened to the content of my songs." Geralt lowers his eyes. Perhaps... there is more than a bit of truth to that statement. "Now, run along. You still have a little while left to play before we have to start heading back to the tavern." 

Geralt gets up to do just that, feeling physically, and mentally, lighter than he has in years. 


	11. Talk of Love

“I’m cold.” Geralt pouts. He is seated in front of the fireplace, as close as he can come to the flames without running the risk of catching flame himself. There is a soft, checkered fleece draped over his shoulders, which provides little in the way of actual warmth—Jaskier won’t let him have the furs until his hair dries.

“Hmm, that’s odd. And here I thought you ran warm.” Jaskier teases, reaching down to ruffle his still-damp curls. “Bear with it for a little while longer, alright? You’ll catch cold if you go to bed with a wet head in this weather.”

“My hair _was_ dry.” The baby Witcher insists—and that is, _technically_ , true. His hair _had_ dried on the way back from their little excursion, but it had needed to be washed before Jaskier would let him anywhere near the bed.

“Yes.” Jaskier concedes, his tone patient. “And now, your hair is _clean_ and almost dry.” He taps the mug in Geralt’s hands, “You’ll feel warmer if you drink your milk. One of the maids was kind enough to warm that for you—I don’t want to see you wasting it.”

“ _Jaskier_ …” He is definitely _not_ whining. “Come sit with me, at least.”

Jaskier chuckles, taking a seat in front of Geralt to block the cool air that is assailing him from the front. “Better?”

They’d returned to the inn just before dark. Geralt had been exhausted from a day filled with activity, and had had to be carried into the room on Jaskier’s shoulder. It was oddly reminiscent to the incident with the djinn, when he’d thrown Jaskier over his own shoulder and carried him up the stairs from the Mayor of Rinde’s wine cellar. Jaskier had bathed him, rinsing cacked mud and little bits of bramble from the mess of chocolate brown curls atop his head, before wrapping him up in one of his silken undershirts and a soft, fleece blanket and setting him out in front of the fire to dry. The whole thing had felt oddly… _domestic_.

He nods. Yes, this is better. Much better. He likes having Jaskier nearby, where he can keep an eye on him. Where he can be sure that he is safe, and well out of harms way. The fact that he is unable to _keep_ him safe in this form is inconsequential. The fact that Jaskier is the one keeping _him_ safe is… sweet. He recognizes that Jaskier had chosen to sit where he did specifically because it blocked the worst of the wind coming in through the cracks of the masonry and it makes him feel… _warm_. Like… the way that warmth blossoms through your chest and your stomach, like a flower, when you drink a warm beverage. It is wonderfully soothing—

He wonders, absently, if Jaskier ever thought about having a family. A nobleman of his rank was likely engaged at one point or another—likely from birth, to a woman that he wouldn’t meet until much later (in many cases, not until the actual wedding—and seeing as there was no ring on Jaskier’s finger, it was safe to assume that he’d run off to Oxenfurt before his family could actually tie him down. But Jaskier… He thinks that he would be good with children. He’s handling Geralt well enough, even if Geralt isn’t technically a child.

…How much of a life has he been keeping Jaskier from pursuing? He knows that it was Jaskier’s choice to follow him along the Path (Melitele _knows_ how he’d tried to convince him to leave, time and again), but still… This whole situation has left him wondering whether Jaskier wouldn’t be happier somewhere else… with _someone_ else. He thinks back on the first night, when Jaskier had confessed his love for him like it was the easiest, and most painful, thing in the world. He’d been so _confused_ , then. Hells, he was still confused now.

_“The Witcher…” Jaskier purses his lips, his brow furrowing as he descends into deep thought. “I love him.” He whispers, finally. “I love him, and I never told him, and I’m beginning to suspect that that’s the only wise decision I’ve made in the last twenty years.”_

_Geralt blinks, “You… love him?”_

_“Yes.” He says this with such venom that it’s hard to believe that they’re talking of love at all. “I’ve loved the dumbass for more than half my life now, and where did it get me? Cast away like yesterday’s garbage, in favor of a crazed witch who only cares for him because a bloody_ _ djinn  _ _made it so.”_

_But Geralt was still struggling to comprehend the fact that Jaskier had just come out and admitted that he_ _ loved  _ _him. Even if he didn’t actually realize who it was that he was confessing to. “You love him… like a friend?”_

_Jaskier hums, “Well, I do suppose that that is technically true. He is_ _－_ _was_ _－_ _my very best friend, up until recently.” He rinses out Geralt’s hair, careful to keep the sudsy water out of his eyes. “But I’m thinking of something more.”_

He takes another sip of his milk—Jaskier will be upset if he allows it to go cold, and he thinks that he’s already done more than enough to upset the poor bard. Once he is finished with his cup, the bard hands him a handkerchief worth more coin than he’s seen in his entire life. It is folded neatly around a batch of still warm biscuits. He realizes, belatedly, that these are the biscuits and honey that he had been promised when they supped together out in the forest. And while he is not necessarily hungry, he tears into the topmost biscuit eagerly, seeking the comfort that he knows the warm, gooey sweetness will provide.

“If you knew that I lied…” Geralt doesn’t know why he feels the sudden desire to ask the question again. Just because he did not like the answer that Jaskier had provided him, did not mean that Jaskier hadn’t provided him with _some_ form of answer. “Why did you stay?”

Jaskier stares at him for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask. Then, he snatches a bit of biscuit for himself, and whispers, “I am many things, Geralt. Cruel is not one of them. The Witcher that hurt me on the mountain was a full-grown man, perfectly capable of defending himself. The Witcher before me now… well…”

Geralt frowns, “So you pity me, then?” He doesn’t know _how_ he feels about that, but he certainly doesn’t like it.

The bard laughs brokenly, “If what I feel is _pity_ , well, then…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, choosing instead to stuff another piece of biscuit into his mouth.

“You said that you love me.” He cannot help but feel like he’s picking at a not-quite healed scab, but there’s something that he desperately needs to know—something that only Jaskier can tell him. “What… does it feel like?”

Jaskier is silent once more. He picks at the fraying fabric at the knee of his trousers… he’s wearing the same pair that he’d been wearing on the mountain, when he’d… “It is like… when I was cursed by the djinn, but worse. Because then, at least, I could trust that you would save me. Now—,”

“I’m the cause.” Geralt concludes softly.

“They say that a woman forgets the pain of childbirth as soon as her newborn babe is placed upon her chest. The human race would cease to exist if mothers feared the pain that accompanied bringing new life into the world, no?” Jaskier cocks his head to the side, “Now, imagine if she was to not only remember the pain, but was forced to endure it every day, for the rest of her natural life, after she’d brought just _one_ babe into the world.”

And it hurts him, in a way that he cannot quite describe, to hear Jaskier speak of himself like this. To speak of what could have been, but never was, between them like this. “Jaskier…”

“To love you is to wonder, constantly, what it is about me that’s not good enough. What it is about Yennefer that makes her so special that she can use her little magic spells to _manipulate you into doing her dirty work_ , and you _still_ look at her like she’s the most beautiful creature that you’ve ever seen.”

“…I never compared you to Yennefer, Jaskier.”

“Of course not.” He smiles thinly, as if he is not at all surprised to hear as much. “Because there was never any competition, right? It’s alright, you can admit it. It’s not like we were ever friends, anyway.”

Geralt doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Jaskier starts dabbing at his swollen, blotchy cheeks with the sleeve of his doublet—and in the end, that just serves to make him cry harder. He might have next to no experience with love, but he _knows_ , deep down, that it shouldn’t hurt in the way that Jaskier described. Had he truly hurt the bard so horribly that the only emotions that he could connect to his feelings for Geralt were negative? His chest starts to grow tight as the tears continue to stream down his face. It’s getting harder to breathe, and he knows that he needs to calm down before he chokes on the piece of biscuit still in his mouth, but—

Jaskier reaches out and scoops him into his arms, fleece and all. He lands, sprawled out unceremoniously across the bard’s lap. The position is not particularly _comfortable_ , but he’s in Jaskier’s arms, so he can’t really bring himself to care. This crying fit is so much worse than the one he’d had the first night, after his dream about his mother abandoning him alongside the road, and he _knows_ that he’s being selfish by asking Jaskier to _stay_ with him, to _comfort_ him after everything he’d just said, but—

Even though Jaskier is the one that initiated the contact, Geralt cannot help but feel that, if he withdraws, he’ll never be able to have this again. He never knew how powerful a simple hug, accompanied by a few comforting pats on the back, could be. He’d never had anyone willing to give him _this_. Even with Yennefer— _especially_ with Yennefer—he hadn’t been able to be soft, _vulnerable_. He’d told her that she meant something to him, and he’d _meant_ it (of course he had, Geralt is _always_ —usually—careful to think his words over before he says anything, lest they be misconstrued), but… Jaskier means something to him, too. Something _important._

Something that he is legitimately afraid to lose.

“I never compared you to Yennefer.” He repeats, when he has his emotions under control to the point where he can speak semi-coherently. Jaskier tenses beneath him, but he ignores it. This is something that _needs_ to be said. “I… what I had with Yennefer was easy. What she _wanted_ from me was easy.”

“Geralt, you don’t…” Jaskier interjects, his voice soft. There is a troubled look in his eyes, which Geralt understands. Hearing the details of his relationship with Yennefer is only going to amplify his pain, and that is the last thing he needs. Or deserves.

He continues, “But… contrary to some _very_ colorful opinions that I’ve heard from husbands you’ve cuckolded over the years… _you_ are not easy, Jaskier. And what you want from me… that isn’t easy, either.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “All I want in this world is to be allowed to love you in the way that you have always deserved to be loved. Until you love yourself as much as I love you.” He exhales slowly, “And if you cannot love me in return… then so be it.”

“Loving myself… isn’t easy.” Geralt whispers. He’s thankful that his face is still hidden away from Jaskier’s sight. It makes it easier to speak his mind.

“Do you even know what love is, Geralt?” There is no accusation in Jaskier’s tone, but his words sting nonetheless.

He knows how he _should_ answer that question. But… as he lays there and thinks about it… he realizes that he doesn’t actually know. His mother, the person who was supposed to teach him the meaning of unconditional love, abandoned him by the side of the road to be transformed into a monster. His fellow Wolf school Witchers are like his surrogate family, but… is what he feels for them _love_? Or is it something else entirely? It is certainly not the kind of love that Jaskier is speaking of, at any rate. There’d been men and women, before and after Yennefer, most of which he’d paid a hefty sum to even consider bedding a Witcher—

“I know that it should not hurt you, as you say that it does.” Geralt concludes, after an extended period of silence. That is true enough, and safely shifts the topic of conversation away from him, at least for the time being.

But Jaskier does not take the bait. “If killing monsters were easy, there would be no need for Witchers. If _loving_ Witchers were easy, I certainly wouldn’t be the only bright-eyed bardling trailing you across the Continent.” He absently combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“Jaskier…” Once again, Geralt finds himself at a loss for words.

“I will stay with you until the curse is lifted.” Jaskier concludes, his voice solemn. It feels as though a weight has been lifted off of Geralt’s shoulders—he did not necessarily think that the bard would abandon him thusly, but it is nice to have confirmation all the same. And then Jaskier continues, with: “After that… well, we shall reevaluate the situation when and if that time comes.”

And his stomach _plummets._


	12. Beautiful Nightmares

Geralt knows that there is something amiss. He just doesn’t know _what_.

He throws back the furs, and takes a moment to check himself over. He’s not injured, and he can move all of his limbs with relative ease—there is a slight burn in his muscles as he languidly stretches them out and forces them to bear his weight for the first time in (hours? days? weeks? he doesn’t rightly know—while this is definitely the room at the inn that he’d been sharing with Jaskier, there is something decidedly _different_ about it), but he chalks that up to spending however long it’d been without moving.

It’s not until he stands that he realizes his entire field of vision has shifted. He looks down, silver hair spilling over his shoulder, as he takes in the stretch of heavily scarred muscle that he hasn’t seen in days. He… Had the curse been broken? He couldn’t remember doing anything to break the curse, but there is no denying that the curse is, in fact, broken. And this… He had to admit that it seemed a bit anti-climactic, to have the curse just _break_ after he’d spent so long agonizing over exactly what it was that he needed to tell Jaskier to break it—

Speaking of Jaskier… where in the world is his bard? It seems really early in the morning, and Jaskier tries not to be up and about before daybreak if he can help it. He turns back to the bed, taking note of the dark head of hair poking out from underneath the furs. It is not the rich, chocolate brown color that he is used to… No, this hair is black as night, and smells faintly of lilac and gooseberries. His heart sinks when he realizes exactly what that means. Turning back toward the bed, he yanks the furs down to reveal—

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here?” He doesn’t even bother attempting to hide the malice in his tone. He may not know _what_ he feels anymore—but he knows that, if she is here, Jaskier is almost certainly _not_.

Yennefer sits up slowly, making no effort to conceal her modesty. Had they…? He’s still mostly clothed—not that that really means anything. When they’d slept together back in Rinde, they hadn’t even bothered to fully undress. “You certainly know how to make a lady feel special, Geralt.”

“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t have time for her games. He doesn’t know what’s happening, or why she’s here after effectively disowning him on the mountain, but he wants an explanation _now_.

Yennefer frowns, “ _You_ were the one who invited me here. You said that you wanted to apologize, and I happened to be in a mood to entertain your emotionally constipated ramblings.” She says.

That is not the answer that he was expecting. It is also not the answer that he wanted to hear. “Where is Jaskier?”

“Why do you think that I would know the answer to that?” She asks, “I have not seen Jaskier since he came storming down the mountain, face filled with tears. I didn’t ask him what had happened, but I assumed that it had something to do with you. It would seem that I was correct.”

“He was _here_ , with me, until just a few…” He wishes that he knew how long it’d been since he’d last seen Jaskier. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours; he doesn’t sleep that well—

“Unless you’ve been hiding him underneath this bed, the only ones that’ve been in this room in the last forty-eight hours have been the two of us.” But that… that doesn’t make any sense.

And then… he realizes that he cannot smell the bard’s scent lingering in the fabric of the spare bed. It’s not weak, fading, like he’d been there a couple of days ago and left. It’s completely absent. The bard’s lute is not in the corner by the fire, his clothes are not tucked neatly away in his saddlebags, his coin purse is not bulging on the bedside table after a particularly fruitful night of performing at the tavern. There is no sign that Jaskier had been there at all, and he hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know what in the hell is happening.

Had he chosen Yennefer over Jaskier? No, that… that didn’t make any sense. He knew that he didn’t think clearly when she was around, but he knew that, with how close he and Jaskier had gotten over the last few days, with how much Jaskier had _told_ him… He would never just throw him away for her, not again. He may not know what is happening, but he knows _himself_ (or, at least, he _thinks_ that he does), and he knows that he wouldn’t do that. He’s already hurt Jaskier so much… Melitele, if he did this to him _again_ …

“What’s the matter, Geralt? You look ill…” Yennefer presses a delicate hand to his shoulder, only for Geralt to side-step out of the way. He shrinks away from her, narrowing his golden eyes in her direction.

“Don’t touch me.” He says. She reaches for him anyway, and he backs away again, “I said _don’t_.”

“You certainly weren’t this reserved last night,” she sounds more than a little put-off, but backs away nonetheless.

“Last night… _whatever_ last night was… was a mistake.” He tells her, “I am… _sorry_ … for what I did to you, but I… this isn’t what I want. Not anymore. And I…” he grabs his shirt and boots, “I’m assuming the room is paid through the rest of the evening. Feel free to use it until then. But I… I can’t stay… I need to find Jaskier—,”

“Why?” Yennefer seems mightily unimpressed. “If he mattered that much to you, you never would’ve let him go on the mountain. You never would’ve done whatever you did to make him leave you in the first place—,”

Geralt narrows his eyes at her, “What makes you think that all of this is my fault?”

“Because it’s _always_ your fault, Geralt!”

Geralt flinches away, but doesn’t try to deny it. He can hear Yennefer in the distance, knows that she’s still talking (from the way her brows are slanted and her cheeks are flushed, he knows that she is likely laying into him _good_ ), but he’s long since tuned her out. His eyes burn with tears—it’s a lot more difficult for him to shed those tears now that he’s in his adult form, even though he knows that he’ll feel so much better if he lets them flow. But he doesn’t want Yennefer to see that side of him, to see him at his weakest—

“Geralt?” Yennefer’s mouth is moving, but that’s definitely not her voice.

“What are you…?” Why is it that he hears Jaskier’s voice every time that Yennefer opens her mouth? It doesn’t make any sense. He’s either imagining Jaskier’s voice… or Yennefer’s face.

“Geralt? Geralt, what’s the matter? You’re crying.”

Is he…? He’d been trying so hard to keep the tears in. He presses a hand to his face, blinking his eyes open… closed… open… the room shifts, and he suddenly finds himself back in bed, his steel-colored eyes, blurry with tears, struggling to focus on Jaskier’s troubled face. He’s back in the body of a child, tucked into one of the two beds in the room in the inn that he is sharing with Jaskier. He launches himself upward, nearly crashing their faces together in his haste to throw his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and draw him into a tight hug.

“Y-You’re still here.” It is almost impossible to make out what it is that he’s attempting to say around his great, gasping sobs. It is incredibly difficult for him to breathe.

“Of course I am.” He says. “I already told you. I’m not going to just leave you alone while you’re in this condition. We’ll… reevaluate the situation when the curse has been broken.”

“I… I dreamt that I… with Yennefer.” He doesn’t even know how to give voice to what it is that he dreamed. Mostly because he is so uncertain as to what it is that he dreamed. “I told her… t-that I didn’t… that I couldn’t… not anymore. I… y-you had left… and n-nobody knew where you were—,”

“I’m here.” Jaskier says, softly, _firmly_. “So there’s no reason to cry, alright?”

“I was s-so s-s-scared!”

And now that he says it out loud… he realizes just how terrified he’d been. He knows Jaskier, knows that Jaskier does not break promises lightly. Something serious would’ve had to have happened to make him leave after he promised Geralt that he would stay. And considering that the curse had been broken in Geralt’s… _dream_ (it was still hard for him to believe that that was a dream, although Jaskier’s hand gently stroking up and down his back has begun to ground him)… he cannot help but wonder if he really _had_ left Jaskier for Yennefer.

Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt’s sweat-slick curls, “Shh… You really are more emotionally vulnerable in this form, aren’t you? Go on, cry it out. You’ll feel better if you let it out…” He pulls Geralt up onto his lap, letting the baby Witcher bury his face in his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hmm…” Geralt doesn’t want to, not really. But he thinks that he might feel better if he does.

“It’s okay if you don’t. If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to hear about Yennefer. But I don’t like knowing that you’re this upset over a dream, so…” and Geralt’s heart breaks just a little bit more, because he _doesn’t_ deserve Jaskier and if he were a stronger man (child) he’d be able to let him go.

“I just…” he sniffles, “I don’t actually know what happened. B-But you were _gone_ and I-I didn’t know where you were and I-I was…” He cannot help but feel as though he is over-reacting, just a bit. Jaskier has left him before, countless times. It’s never been _permanent_ , but…

Jaskier says as much, “This would hardly be the first time that I’ve ever left you, Geralt. And I must say… I find it somewhat hard to believe that you had such a visceral reaction each time that we parted ways.”

The baby Witcher gasps wetly, “T-That’s because…”

“Because…” Jaskier presses, not impatiently.

“I-I… w-when I said _that_ on the mountain, I didn’t expect you’d actually l-leave! Y-You… I’d t-treated you like shit _dozens_ of times, and it’d never b-been so serious that you j-just… _rolled over_ like that. Y-You were supposed to… to _laugh it off_ , or-or curse me out, or _something_. Y-You weren’t…”

Jaskier is silent for a long while. Long enough for Geralt to begin to grow antsy. And then, “Can I… _ask_ you something, Geralt?” And Geralt… doesn’t know quite how to answer that, and so he just nods. “What am I to you?”

Geralt frowns. Hadn’t they already established that he didn’t know the answer to that question? “I…”

“I don’t want you to _think_.” Jaskier cuts him off, “Just… what’s the first word that comes to mind when you think of me?”

“Y-You’re… mine.” It sounds so simple when he puts it like that. So why does it make everything seem infinitely more complicated? He doesn’t _own_ Jaskier in the same way that he owns Roach. Jaskier is a _person_ —he doesn’t _own_ him at all. But the fact remains that he can’t think of a better way to describe what Jaskier is to him.

“I’m… yours?” He sounds… confused. Which… at least he’s not mad.

“I… well, yeah. You’re my bard, and I’m your Witcher.” But somehow… it seems like so much more than that. It feels like… like Jaskier is a part of him. As much as Roach is a part of him. Because he… he _loves_ Roach, and—

…He loves Roach. And he… loves Jaskier? Maybe? But it’s… it’s definitely not the same type of love that he feels for Roach. Obviously, he loves Roach more. At least, he _thinks_ that he does. The more he thinks about it, the less sense everything seems to make to him. This is, admittedly, a lot for him to try to take in at once—especially when he is already feeling emotionally vulnerable. And so he thinks, just this once, that Jaskier won’t mind if he doesn’t try and provide any other form of rationalization for what he’s said. He is positive that the matter will come up in due course… he can only hope that he’s in a better position to deal with whatever it is that he’s feeling then.


End file.
